Orphans
by Ezra Cross
Summary: here you will find pain, abandonment, and angst. you will writhe for more, and you will not get it. Within these walls are the echoes of an author's soul, her inspiration, dashed in indecision and lifelessness. Here you will find those orphan stories with few solid beginnings, and no endings. The orphans that haunt me. I now let them haunt you.
1. Meeting Clint Barton

So, I might have a lot...i mean, A LOT ... of Hawkeye stories out there, but they are only a fraction of the tries and fails of stories i have waiting in my "Orphan" folder. So, I decided to put those poor souls up for a little while to help you get a little Hawkeye fix from me.

These are those Orphans. The unfinished, under-explored, plot thickening builder-uppers that never were. Maybe one day I'll write the rest of them. For now, enjoy the emotional turmoil.

Each Chapter will start out with an explination as to where in the series it belongs, and will end with what could have happened next. Enjoy these little orphans!

* * *

 **Part 1**

 _ **Meeting Clint Barton**_

 _(In my story I write that "every one of them had their own Clint Barton story" and I was just sitting here wondering,.. What was mine? When did that little Hawkeye find and latch onto me, never to let go? Well, here is my story (based on some reality)_

It was early May. I decided to go out for the night in the same fashion I did almost every evening I wanted to be by myself. First a movie, then dinner, and a long drive home with my favorite music blasting and me singing like a royal idiot. No one to judge the movie I watched, no one to look disappointingly across the table when I finished a massive desert all by myself, and no one slapping my hand off the radio dials from my occasional binge of country music or Miley Cyrus. That night I went out to see an incredibly popular movie (we all know it was Avengers) and I left the movie theater with an absolute fire in my belly for that peculiar star who had so few lines, but such an imaginative, mysterious, background.

As I sat to my meal I thought about that archer. We had so many things in common, I considered. I loved archery, and so did he. That seemed like enough to develop a friendship in my book. Pretty soon I started something that I was rather guilty for in restaurants. I ordered my meal, hunted down a pen in my purse, and dug out an old receipt. Putting pen to paper, I began to right out a few notes that, unfortunately, usually sent up a red flag to my waiter. I can't tell you how many times I've been mistaken for a food critic. My food hit the table and I glanced up to see him... The man who consumed my fascination.

He had a vaguely disoriented look, as if he couldn't decide how exactly he ended up at my table in the corner of an Applebee's in Nowhere, New Hampshire. I had to admit, I felt the same. His eyes, clouded blue like a spring morning, glanced around the room once or twice before settling on me. I pushed my food aside to better consider him.

I saw pain there. A deep hurt, a concern, and confusion. He'd just won a battle against an alien race, and yet there was still so much he didn't understand. What happened to those friends he had lost? Where was he going to end up? Was he a monster? So many questions scrolled across his face like a neon billboard in a convenience store window. He might have saved the world, but that didn't mean he wasn't still a man.

I leaned forward, stacking my chin on top of my fist to keep my voice just between the two of us. "I feel like there's a story hiding in you," I said to him.

"I'm not sure where to start," he replied.

I glanced down at my sorry excuse for a proper writing implement. Like a newspaper reporter caught without her notebook. "I guess I would say to start at the beginning. After all, it's not like I know you."

Those cerulean clouds dashed across the table and locked onto my dismal hazel ones. "That might take a while."

I shrugged. "I'm not working on anything else."

"Can I trust you?" He asked. Some part of him hopeful, another caught in his own skepticism.

I edged my strawberry kiwi lemonade across the table to rest between his hands. "What have you got to lose? Besides... This could be fun."

* * *

And that's how it all began...


	2. Birthday

**Part 2**

 ** _Birthday_**

 _(Written for a friend's birthday, a mostly complete little facebook tale...)_

Clint Barton been acting strangely that day. Not the typical "I need coffee and I'm taking it out on you" strange, a different sort that made Tony wonder exactly what was spinning around in that blond head of his. Asking him outright never went over well. Clint had a defense shield as solid as any one of Tony's armored suits and the minute he felt interrogated, up the walls would go. He'd strut, prickled up like a threatened porcupine, and Tony would walk away stinging and unsatisfied.

Leaning on the doorway to Barton's room in Avengers Tower, the billionaire attempted to gain whatever insight simple observation provided. A bag packed on the bed. Something inside poked out with a red bow tied over the top. Shoes on his feet. A surprisingly neat look, complete with shirt tucked into the rim of his jeans and, God forbid, a belt. If Tony was a betting man, he might have put money down that Clint even took time to gel his hair. Caution thrown to the wind, he simply couldn't help himself.

"Who are you, and what have you done with Hawkeye!" Stark demanded, actually slightly concerned. Clint never looked this put together outside of a fundraiser, and even then it was only at the begging of the women in his life.

For once, Clint ignored the heightened anxiety in Tony's voice and continued to root around on the dresser.

"Huh?" he asked.

Surprised again, Tony took a few ginger steps inside. "Are you attending a funeral? Or do you and Red Lightning have a hot date?" He leaned over, peering into the bag and noted the tightly, though briskly, wrapped gift. The words "To XXXXXX, My Eye in the Sky" were scrawled along the tag. Funeral sounded less likely.

"Birthday," Clint replied off handed. He pulled open the top drawer, found nothing of interest to him, and tried the second.

Distracted, dressed up, and bearing gifts. Tony was almost prepared to drag Barton down to his brain scanner. "Can I ask who you are meeting?"

"Friend," Clint quipped. Dejected he put his fists on his hips and glared around the room. Silently he muttered the words, "Where are they?"

"What are you looking for?"

"Flannels. Spending the night."

Tony's eyebrows shot up his forehead like rollercoasters on an incline. His mouth began to hang slightly open. "Sp—Spending the night?"

"Yeah, I owe her one." He dropped to the floor, lifted the bed skirt, and shrieked in success. He came up, bearing the wayward clothing and dunked them into his bag.

"With a woman?"

Clint arranged the objects in his overnight bag and zipped the top shut. "Yeah, why?"

"Does Natasha know this?"

"Of course she does, she's grabbing the cake once she comes back from Alfheimr with the gift." Clint finished his fussing and looked up. For the first time he actually realized he'd been talking to Tony at all. He'd been so focused the idea seemed to have slipped his mind, driving him into autopilot. Now, that switched turned off. "Why is this a big deal?"

"You don't do birthdays," Tony pointed out.

"This one, I do."

"What's so special about this one?"

To that, Clint smiled a little. "She's an old friend. Been with me a while. Gave me a lot of guidance in times I needed it and strangely enough I listened, which doesn't always happen." He slung the duffle strap over his shoulder. "Besides, I get to spend the whole night practicing my Italian."

:(:):(:):

He walked through the front door, arms wide with cheesy grin while Natasha juggled objects around in her hands. He hugged the woman, planted a kiss on the offered cheek and grabbed the package out of his duffle. "You may not believe it, but I did wrap it myself. Oh, and ignore the Christmas print."

Tearing the wrapping paper away enthusiastically, she reveals the small gift tucked in the masses of shredded newspaper and left over valentines tissue. Plucking the circle of leather out, her eyes begin to dance. He says nothing, watching her excitement over the collar with a shared enthusiasm. He knows she understands the depths of what the object means.

Natasha has disappeared, leaving her cake, more boxes, Clint, and her bags by the door. She returns now, not bothering to knock. Trotting in behind her is the gift sent straight from Alfheimr.

"It was Clint's idea," she explained, letting the canine in. "He had a feeling she was meant for you, and Rinon agreed. His two dire wolves only had the litter three months ago. She might be big when she's full grown."

"Rinon named her Valya, the Ancient One. And she is all yours." Clint smiled, watching his friend's enthusiasm overflow. No, Clint didn't do birthdays. Not often. This one, though, this meant just that little bit more.

:(:):(:):

* * *

If you are, too, one of those lucky souls who received a wolf pup please remind me. I'm putting together a list of the wolf pack for a new thing.:)


	3. 100 Cuts

**Part 3**

 _ **100 Cuts**_

 _(So this is a shameless whump fun that has nothing at all to do with my typical stories! Please enjoy. Based on the challenge by Jensendaddy: Maybe the little bruises and cuts that show up on your body seemingly out of nowhere are actually little injuries that happened to your soulmate and you get the same marks on your skin as them. Boy Howdy.)_

Thor looked at himself in the glass reflection, lacing one finger along his left eyebrow as he considered the peculiar mark. Life hadn't given him too much of a right hook lately, but there the evidence remained nonetheless. The little creases in the corner of his blue topaz eyes squeezed together over the shades of blue-green blood pools. A red square roughly the size of a man's ring highlighted the center of his temple.

The Asgardian stood and traded glances with the reflection in his mirror as the two men considered what could have happened to them. He was mostly certain that when he went to sleep that night he'd been mostly normal.

"First time your dreams and nightmares appear to have bested you," Thor sighed.

The rune stone counter top rumbled in time with his ringing cell phone. There were a number of styles in this day and age. Ones like Tony's which required little more than a small stick and some JARVIS interface. Natasha had a "smart" phone. Even in his mind, Thor used air quotes. When he shopped for a phone of his own he had few actually needs. Did it ring? Could he talk to someone on the other side? Did it _not_ have inter-web? Could it somehow be manipulated by Asgardian brains to pick up a signal through the Bifröst portal and still work? Then good enough. Ignoring the disheartened look of his reflection, Thor dropped a hand down to answer the phone.

"Thor," He quipped, returning a probing hand to the side of his face.

"Is this the Son of Odin? I'd like to order one side of boar, three rounds of ANOTHER!, two dashing blond Valkyries—"

Thor stopped probing to exchange glances with the ceiling. "Stark," he said the word with a depth of venom and surprise in it.

"The one and only. Look, we've got a situation down here and unless you're busy feeding your Intergallactac green dog, I suggest you swing by."

"What sort of situation?" Thor asked.

"I might come and pick you up," Tony said suddenly.

Figuring the situation, whatever it was, might be spiraling out of control even as Tony spoke to him, Thor exited the washroom and fished a hand blindly into his closet. The last time Tony called them together he'd accidently opened a worm hole back to the location of the Chitauri army. It was small and easily managed, but difficult to handle nonetheless. No one had even felt the need to ask Thor's assistance then. Before that the country was under siege by the Mandarin, Stark was assumed dead, Pepper Potts had been kidnapped, and Stark hadn't felt the need to ask for any assistance at all.

"The Bilröst only opens to those worthy of Valhalla," Thor replied. "I doubt you could appear in my bed chamber uninvited. Where shall I meet you?" The cell phone nearly slipped from the crook of his arm to break apart on the floor. Thor readjusted to keep it against his ear as he yanked on his clothes.

"I believe the last time we had this conversation, you agreed I could rule Asgard."

"You did not lift Mjolnir. That was the requirement." The Asgardian heir stripped out of his shirt and before pulling on the remainders of his armor plates. He doubted he'd have a chance to change wherever Stark's emergency took them.

"I'll be there in three minutes."

Thor glanced around his room skeptically. He was, in fact, still in Asgard.

"Make that one minute."

Thor abandoned his closet and fished around in his bedside for his hammer. He attached the strap to his belt loop. "While it would cause me endless entertainment to see you attempt that, I think to save your ego and my time, I will meet you at the Avengers training grounds. Do you mind telling me what's going on?"

Equipment in hand, he headed out of his room. He nodded to the three guards posted outside, accepted their salutes, and started in the direction of the great hall. It was easier to reach the Bifröst from there rather than flying his way around the entire chateau and hoping not to fling himself into a patrol ship.

"Son of Odin!" A garrison announced, pulling to a hault from the adjoining hall. They snapped to attention, presenting their weapons in front of their chests. Thor accepted their subjugation.

"Captain," Thor replied with a nod of approval.

"Hey is that your hot, black-haired girlfriend?" Tony asked.

"Not helping," Thor quipped.

"I'm here."

Thor paused in the stairwell and directed his eyes upward. "Are you speaking truthfully?"

"Getting slow, old man," Tony said.

"Respect your elders. I am the son of Odin and older than your country," Thor replied, looking around him. He didn't see any indication that the Bilröst had been opened, nor that Stark had walked through some scientific experimentation to appear on his plane of existence. Changing direction, he took the remaining steps two at a time upward. Within a few minutes, he arrived at the dome-shaped spire of the chateau. Stark stood across from him, cross armed and tapping his foot impatiently. He wasn't as surprised to see the man decked out in yet another new suit of armor as he was to see Stark at all.

"Wow, Thor, what got you?" Tony asked, probing one metal finger forward against the red square in the center of Thor's black eye.

Thor batted his hand away. "I had a scuffle with a bilge rat. I'm sure you understand the sensation. How did you arrive here?!"

"Toy I was playing with. I wasn't sure it would work, or if it would dice me in a million little pieces, but hey, it looks like It worked. Ok, we need to go."

Thor tried to shake of his myriad of questions. Instead he said, "What trouble has come? My brother is locked in—"

"It's not Loki."

"Then the Chitauri plan—"

"Nope, no aliens. At least, I don't think so. There actually is a real chance there could be aliens."

"I don't understand. The earth has faced untold dangers and you have not called upon my help. What has changed?"

Tony's fingers curled into a fist with his thumb shoved backward at nothing at all. "Blame you. Apparently you had an old friend show up and everything kinda went to crap after that. Barton's gone."

Thor's look changed. "Gone?"

Tony nodded once. "So this guy showed up at the front door, asked for you, and Hawk took a swing at him."

Still, Thor had no clearer picture of what had occurred, and why it required his assistance specifically. "That is no surprise, if Barton chose to uphold my honor, then I commend him for it."

"Yeah, well, I figured the same. Then we got this," Tony held out a folded paper and shoved it toward Thor.

Thor looked down and scrutinized it as Tony spoke.

"He's been gone four days now. Figured we could handle it, then some strange things started up, and it all went sideways and spacey. That name mean anything to you?" Tony leaned forward and stabbed the letter with his finger. "Cause yesterday that note showed up with a severed head in the box."

The Asgardian's gaze shot up from the paper.

"It wasn't Clint's head. We don't know whose it was. Your name got carved into the forehead, though, so explain that part to me."

Thor's mouth ran dry. His grip tightened on the letter, the words written in blood, the words calling him out in his native tongue.

It has been too long, son of Odin

-Zarrko

* * *

So, where was this going to go? I'm really not sure. I had this idea of switching Thor to Steve, or keeping it with Thor, I didn't really know. I'm not sure what I wanted to do with the mysterious Zarrko, and whether he was going to be a multi-book-baddie bent on world domination, or if it was going to be a little personal grudge match. We may never know. One thing was for certain. Epic Thor/Clint whump would have ensued to the nth degree.


	4. The Western

**Part 4**

 _ **The Western**_

 _ **Prologue**_

 _(I've aluded to this story here and there, and Facebook fans have had some rendition/previews of this in other forms. But, here it is! The Avengers Western)_

:(:):(:):

 _My belly hung low to the ground with all manner of dirt and rock rising from the mesquite to shred the old shirt I'd thrown on. Half a dozen buttons pulled free as I crawled, hand over hand, to the ledge of the rock face. The sun blazed into my eyes while I fought my way toward the rim rock edge and glared into the canyon. The men I hunted thundered down the canyon half a mile away. I'd be waiting when they hit my little edge. I brought the Sharps rifle under my arm, setting the butt of the gun against my right shoulder as tightly as I could._

 _The pounding light of the noon day sun beat against me. Sweat made the shirt cling to my back. I wanted to sleep. Stop running, fighting, just lay down my gun and walk away. I fought the exhaustion knowing I had to sit, perfectly still, beneath the agave bush clinging to the rock wall._

 _A sound startled me. I risked moving, glancing over my shoulder at the horse dancing and swaying where it stood. She was an antsy cur._

 _"Shhh," I whispered, hushing the animal. The horse had been nothing but trouble since I rode out of camp with her. The paint mare had a large pale face with one blue eye and already she'd attempted to kill me four times. In the night, while I ran for me life, she spooked at a sage grouse crossing our path. I dumped right over the saddle horn. My belly still ached from it. When I made camp, she spied a snake and nearly trampled me in her quest to escape it. I didn't like paints as a breed, too spooky and having one blue eye only added to her ill feats. She had a certifiable insanity in her._

 _From the sprawling canyon below, a whoop of elation floated up to me. I ignored the pawing horse and brought the rifle up again. I stared down the sight._

 _My mouth went dry waiting for them to round the bend. I reached into the dust below my gun rest and grabbed a handful to dry my palms and prevent the slip of finger on trigger. The first rider entered the canyon and I stopped breathing._

 _The rider's name was Chuck Reilly. He had been a shotgun man for Wells Fargo before he robbed the stage he rode for. Wanted in Eagle Bend twenty miles west, he fetched a hundred dollar price on his head, preferably alive._

 _Reilly let out a second whoop. Another rider shot out beside him. From the distance, I couldn't be sure who it was. I knew Reilly rode with Lucian Shaw and assumed it must be Shaw until I heard the man's voice._ _Lucian reached over and slammed a fist into the Reilly's chest, hollering at him to quit making a ruckus._

 _It didn't matter, I already had a bead on them. The minute the wagon came into view, the gunshots would ring out. I planned to kill the wagon driver first, then take on his shotgun rider. The men on the horses might scatter, but that didn't matter. Only the wagon did._

 _My left eye closed out of reflex, but I swiftly reopened it. Switching between a bow and gun often got me into trouble on things like that. I had to breathe, calm down, and wait for the right time or risk exposing my position. I inhaled carefully. My chest hardly moved to prevent the sun from reflecting off the gun barrel._

 _I rode ahead of the twenty-man posse following the wagon out of Quervo, Texas. I'd been hired on by Doc Metzel to do some scouting for the sheriff after five women went missing. Two Texas Rangers joined the posse outside Great Creek. The minute they caught up to the fleeing wagon, it meant the noose._

 _The wagon team, six mules strong and as tall as Belgians, shot into the canyon behind the outriders. The driver laid into the mule's hides with the whip, sending a crack through the air at each connection. They'd pushed the animals nearly to the breaking point in their quest to reach the Mexican border._

 _I lined my sight up against the chest of the driver. Without hesitation I pulled the trigger._

Chapter 1

"Ten—ten to . . ." the dusty traveler folded over at the waist, belched, and straightened again. His wide eyes attempted to focus on the distant wall. A round, felt fronted target had been erected there and downing the last third of a whiskey bottle, the drunken man was attempting to hit it. The men around him took bets, totaling a full eleven dollars, claimed he would fail miserably. They even went so far as to give the man a knife to throw, seeing as the darts were confiscated by the saloon owner.

Blinking, swaying, and drinking the man lined up his shot. "Ten to one!" he finally declared, a bravado of liquid courage puffing out his chest. "I make this one."

Those crowded around to watch, mostly ranchers or drifters passing through the heart of town for a little entertainment before the realities of life reclaimed their attentions, agreed to the offer and a few more dollars made their way to the pile. Behind the full bodied bar, the proprietor stood and oversaw the events. His hand clutched the butt of a Colt single action .45 just beneath their line of sight. He had some experience with dog and pony shows such as this, and on principle sent one of his regulars for the sheriff.

The drunk swayed again. He stumbled over his own two feet, crashed into a table and hit the floor. The men betting against him laughed like fools, expecting a healthy return on their investments. Most made pennies a day. Hardly enough to feed themselves, their land, or their families. A table top full of twenty-three green backs, even split among three of them, might be worth killing for. The bar proprietor checked his doorway again. So far, no tall sheriff seemed ready to burst through the batwings.

The drunk righted himself. Grabbed the last shot on the table, slung it back, and let the liquid fire stream down the back of his throat. He set his feet, or tried to, took in a deep breath, held the tip of the bowie in his hand and before anyone knew what happened the knife was sticking out of the side of the wall.

The Stark Tower Saloon tended to fill with sound even when Ms. Potts wasn't banging away on the piano keys. People drinking, eating, making conversation, playing cards, or the occasional argument tended to give the room a liveliness that made it attractive to all who passed through Deadtree. Though the entire room hadn't taken part on the drunken man's antics, they had kept a steady eye on him, expecting, much as the owner Anthony Stark had, that trouble may ride in at the earliest convenience. Silence fell in them all the moment the knife hit.

 _Thwap_!

All eyes turned, slowly, toward the drunk. He seemed no more sober than he had originally. In fact, even he appeared taken aback at hitting the dead center of the target. He shrugged it off, turned to the table where the money rested, bypassed the stack for the bottle of whiskey, and considered its empty form. He shook the bottle toward Stark.

"Wha kina place less a man drink end?"

Stark didn't respond. He nodded to someone who'd stepped into the doorway. The drunk spun around to look.

The sheriff arrived. He stood nearly as tall as the doorway itself with a stack of muscles so high, he might as well have been a coal miner. He stepped through the batwings, letting the doors slide off his chest and flutter shut behind him. His boots had no spurs, and an old army Remington rested in a weathered old holster high on his waist. Rarely had anyone seen him use it, though the two knew he could. The two sets of muscular fists normally served him in most situations.

Stepping inside, he removed his hat and set it on the nearest table beside the door. The two men sitting there promptly scattered.

The drunk had to tilted his head up and back in order to see into the sheriff's face. "You one 'elluva big dude."

"Sheriff Rogers," the lawman said. "We having a problem here?"

The drunk considered it and after a time promptly wagged his head from side to side. "Nope. Jus' takin' these fine gents cash an' lightin' out."

"He cheat us good!" one man declared, reaching for the stack of cash.

"He's a sodbusting, cardsharp!" another backed him up.

"Man drinks down five dollars worth of whiskey and hits that!" the third put in, indicating the target. "He's cheatin!"

Sheriff Rogers' eyes narrowed at them, and the men retreated from the money pile. They were well aware of his reputation. "I think you boys know my feelings on gambling in this town. Might be legal as far as this territory states, but that doesn't mean I side with it. Understand?"

The three retreated another step. Rogers' attention returned to the drunk.

"All right, what's your name?"

The drunk grinned. "Abraham Lincoln."

Rogers did not smile. "Don't slander the dead. Especially not him. Your real name?"

"Ulysses S. Grant."

The sheriff rolled his eyes. He nodded toward Stark. "Mind if I borrow your patron for public drunkenness?"

"I am not drunk in public!" the man declared. He looked around, found a chair, and planted himself down like a woman suffragist on a rally. "I am drunk indoors."

Rogers decided not to argue with him and looked expectantly at Stark.

"He owes five for the whiskey, three for the glasses he broke, seven for the knife wound in my dart board, and a five for the room he took last night. Twenty one total."

The sheriff's eyebrows crested over his forehead. He hadn't seen that kind of money in his pocket in fifteen years, and that was only after he'd been given the liquidated assets from his mother and father's deaths. "And you let him run that kind of tab?!"

Stark remained impassive. "He had an honest face."

That wasn't the whole story and Rogers knew it. Pressing him on the matter now wouldn't do them any good. He picked up the winnings on the table, counted it, and slapped the twenty one down on the bar top. Stark didn't even spare the sum a glance. His eyes remained on the drunk, and hadn't left. His hand continued to clutch the Colt. Rogers took the rest of the winnings and split it three ways between the gamblers. A few considered bucking him about it, but clamped their mouths when he stood over them like a Roman pillar. Two dollars and change was better than nothing at all.

"Hey!" the drunk shouted, watching his money filter away.

"You won't need it," Rogers told him. He returned to the man, lifted him out of the chair, and putting his muscles to work, and wordlessly dragged the man out into the street. The drifter attempted to fight. He threw a few wild haymakers and mule-kicked the sheriff in the leg. If he hadn't been full of whiskey at the time, he might have done considerable damage. Together they made off down the dusty lane in the direction of the jail.

Stark released the gun and shot a glance to the woman leaning across from him at the bar.

"That who I thought it was?" he asked.

Natasha Romanov tilted her head a little so she might watch Rogers escort the man off. A careful twinge at the corner of her lip turned it slightly skyward. "That's him. They call him Hawkeye."

"You worked with him."

Natasha nodded a little. She had a stack of red hair pinned up in tight curls and a Russian accent she tried to hide. Stark had only known her for a few months. Daily he found himself asking more and more questions about her life. She wasn't exactly an open book.

"Will other people know him?"

Natasha considered that for a while. She was perched on a bar stool with her legs crossed at the knee. Her old bell skirt hiked up past her ankles, causing more than one man's eye to spin in her direction.

"He's known enough. People find out Hawkeye's in town, they might come around more often. Could stir up trouble. He doesn't like staying in one place too long. He'll probably light out if Steve doesn't hold him." Her eyes averted from the blown glass windows to bat in his direction. "What are you going to do, Tony?"

"He's good?"

Natasha indicated the dart board. "Even drunk he doesn't miss. He never misses."

"Be an asset with the cattle coming to town."

"He would."

Stark thought about the events he'd witnessed and the small fear he'd experienced when the drifter first stepped into his saloon. He made it his business to know people from all walks of life. Some men sent chills up his spine and when Clint "Hawkeye" Barton strode through his door, that old fear worked back through his bones. He stayed to himself throughout the night, ordering a meal from the kitchen and finishing it alone in his room. Four hours prior, Barton emerged, started into his drinking, and hadn't stopped.

"Is he a loose canon?" Tony asked.

"Clint? No. He's just a little," Natasha tried to come up with the right word. She smiled, "special."

* * *

Please continue to chapter 2...if you dare...


	5. The Western, cont

**Part 4**

 _ **The Western**_

 ** _Chapter 2_**

 _The summer heat beat down on my brows, sending a flow of perspiration down the side of my face. I resisted the urge to drag my hand across it. All of my focus remained forward, waiting, watching, and ready. I eyed the wagon driver. Without hesitation, I squeezed the trigger on the Sharp's rifle. I didn't wait to see the man topple from the side of the wagon before shifting to the others._

 _Harvard Lee was the shotgun rider and a good one at that. The minute the driver fell, he zeroed in on my location instantly. I cocked the rifle, let loose with another shot, and pulled away from the cliff's edge. The second shot should have felled the closest mule. Hopefully Harvard was caught up under it._

 _"What the Hell happened!" Someone screamed. A string of curses followed._

 _Dell and Bruno. They were Harvard's right hands and fair shots too. The two rode up behind the wagon and circled up to defend it to the death if they had to. They were more rats than men. The sight of them left a foul taste in the back of your throat, and they stank like rotting corpses. I never planned to give them the chance to get their clear shots on me. Instead I would cut them off at the front of the canyon and pick them off one at a time._

 _I jogged toward the spooky paint and stole her reins out of the scrub brush. Sticking one foot into the stirrup, I swung himself up and spun the horse around toward the incline at the other side of the hill top. A lone figure stepping out of the sage only a few feet away caused me to pull up to a halt._

 _The color drained from my face. "Wa—Wait! Don't!"_

:(:):(:):

I came awake groggily. A thrum pressed through my temples, reminding me of the hour long drinking binge I enjoyed before the world fell out from under me. I had a vague notion of being thrown out of someplace, maybe even winning some greenbacks or losing it. I rolled over on the hard cot and cast a wary eye around the room.

Bars.

I narrowed my eyes and yawned. Bars were never a good thing. Usually that meant whatever I won, I also lost. A discontented grumble parted my lips, matching the partner it had in my guts. Whatever drinking I did was on an empty stomach.

"I thought I got bread and water in this place! What gives?" I found an empty tin pan beneath the cot and threw it against the metal rungs. Somewhere to my left, boot steps resounded on the floor boards. They were soft, like a whisper. For a moment I wondered if it belong to a woman and shifted a little better to see a pair of kneecaps at eye level. Confused, I rolled slightly, looking higher and higher until I finally ended up on my back and faced the massive man with a tin star pinned to his chest. So much for it being a woman.

"Are you a grizzly bear?" I asked plainly. I must have still been slightly drunk. I'm not quite sure where the words came from and, apparently, neither was he.

The sheriff leaned forward, propping his elbows on the horizontal bar slats. "Nope. Name's Rogers. Steven Rogers."

I forced myself up a little, braving the swimming storm rolling around my head that threatened to knock me flat at any moment. Pressing a hand against my temple, I willed my memory to work the way it should have. Rogers sounded familiar, but I wasn't sure why. Then, it hit me and I whistled appreciatively. "Union Jack Rogers from Sherman's outfit? Captain America?"

Surprised, Steve straightened. "Uh, yeah, actually. Did you go to West Point?"

I looked at him again, noting the size of the man. He wasn't lean, not like most sheriff's out these parts making hardly enough to keep fed and a horse at the same time. Some had gone so far as to outlaw the carrying of guns. Not because they wanted to keep the town safe, they just couldn't afford bullets themselves and didn't want to face someone who could. Times were hard after the war. I knew that as well as anyone.

After a time I noticed he waited for an answer. "Went. Didn't stay," I said.

"Army?"

If I went to West Point, I went to the army. That's just how it worked. If the guy couldn't figure that one out, he didn't have any business knowing me. So, I stopped the conversation there. I took in the sights of the room around us. I'm sure the likes of Steve Rogers, the Union's Golden Boy, didn't know what to make of me. I tried to stay simple looking. Close cropped hair, clean shaved, and enough dust on me to become one with the mesquite should I need to. Often times I did. I had yet to see the inside of a tub, despite the time I took to unearth the skin from beneath my beard and drink myself under the table and into the jail.

My assessment of the room complete, I returned my attention to the jailer. "I wasn't just mentioning that bread and water. I'll take biscuits if you got 'em. Don't think I'll be staying long."

The sheriff could feel the wall I dropped down between us. For a few brief moments he thought he may have found something in common with me. As quickly as it came, the time passed. Half of the men who frequented these jails may have been more talkative than a drugstore dandy in New York. The others tended to be veteran law breakers. Chips rested on their shoulders like cornerstones from a mausoleum. I aimed to be the latter.

"Someone planning on busting you out?" Steve asked. He crossed the weathered wood boards of the office and pulled up next to the winter stove top. Sheriffs often used it as a desk or catch all when summer overtook the cold, hard prairie winters. I'd smelled something earlier that reminded me of yesterday's lunch at the Golden House. The cook's name was Sam Wilson. A colored man from the North who, for some reason, found himself in this little town. I never asked why. Being out long enough on trails told you not to ask. By now, the biscuits had long turned hard and the coffee grew cold and chalky. Rogers swirled the drink around the bottom of the coffee can and poured the cool liquid into the cup resting beside it.

Watching him struggle over what to do with the cold breakfast, I said. "Imagine you'll let me out soon."

"Oh? How do you figure that?"

"Usually what happens."

Steve stood with the cup in his hand, debating for a moment on what he might do with it. "I could stick the coffee out in the sun for a while and let the heat set it to boil."

"Cold's fine." I said, if only to end the indecision.

He returned to the cell and set the cup and the biscuit on the floor by the head of the cot. I had to twist around and, hell, actually get up to reach it. I'm not sure what he thought I was going to do to him if I ever got the chance.

"You get locked up often around towns you pass through? And all those sheriffs just happen to let you out? Why?"

"They need me." I replied. I sat up, letting my booted feet swing down and rest on the floor while I reached between the bars and picked up the so-called breakfast. I munched quietly and didn't complain about the drink.

Steve reached behind his desk, picked up a chair, and walked it over. He set it down and straddled it backwards. "Need you for what? Who are you?"

Maybe I wanted to spook the guy, or just give him a hard time. Most people once they heard my name changed around me. I wondered what he planned to do if I ever decided to give it to him. I ate, drank, looked over, took another bite, sipped my cup, and when the two were done I placed the empty tin can on the other side of the bars again. Finished the almost ritualistic behavior I looked at the sheriff and spoke.

"Steven Rogers, enlisted in '62 along with long time friend B. Barnes. He died in the assault at Tremont some two years in. You graduated West Point but started as an enlisted man. Your Captain, Harold Scott, died at the Westerly Action in the summer of '64 some two months after Barnes, and you got a promotion. Commanded your own tactical men through Gettysburg and marched them right to the White House when it was all said and done. Abraham Lincoln called you one of the deciding factors that changed the face of the war. Men feared you."

Steve held a genuine shock that I somehow knew him so intimately. After Lincoln's assassination, he'd been disenchanted with life after the War. He headed west, following the promise of chasing Indians and carving out territory boundaries but even that never settled with him. Five years in, he left the army behind and quite by happenstance arrived in Jarvis, New Mexico. He had been passing through, like most men in this part of the world. The traveling marshal begged him to stay on as sheriff for as long as he could stand it. That was five months ago. The only reason I knew any of it, was the same marshal hunted me down outside Waverly and practically begged me to get on my horse and ride into Jarvis.

"Seems you know an awful lot about me," Steve said.

He wasn't wrong. The marshal gave me a fair helping of information I didn't necessarily want. I deflected, "Most educated men know Steven Rogers. They said you were big. They were right."

"You're an educated man?"

"No."

"What then?"

My enthusiasm for the conversation drained and I grew silent. I didn't lie back down, or rub my pounding temples again. I simply stopped talking and continued to stare at the old army captain. People tended to squirm and show themselves after a while of a heavy unchanging stare. I wondered what he might do.

Steve simply laid into me with his own hard gaze. He'd played this game before.

Outside, the wind began to thrust a sandstorm into the air. The rains hadn't come to this patch of hell-on-earth. Wild horses chewed down what scrub still existed on the badlands and local cattle herds took over the rest. Trouble stirred in the air like the storm itself. I could almost taste it the minute I rode into town. It came as no surprise that the marshal sought me out.

The tides turned rough when the war ended. Most drifted the trails looking for work. Others tried to make a go of it in the dirt or wild scrub out west. Even the word, "west" became like a hope in the hearts of men and women trying to find a better life for themselves. The only trouble being, nothing better existed the minute they reached the west. Lands were stollen up from the natives living on it. That created one tension. In the New Mexico territory, the seven months of drought made men desperate, and desperate men were dangerous.

Steve removed himself from the chair to watch the weather turn sour from the inside doorway. Most of the shop fronts were boarding up their windows and pulling doors shut. The last time they had a bad one come through more than a dozen business lost the precious glass fronts. Steve grabbed the door handle and began to pull it shut. The heat inside was hardly better than outside.

Sweat had soaked my shirt already. I only had two and the other wasn't any better. I hadn't planned to drag them down to the Chinese laundry for another three days. Here tell from the working girls at Stark's place, Billy Chen was a wiz when it came to caring for his clothing's upkeep, but a scoundrel at prices to get it done. Being the only launder in town gave him every right to charge what he liked.

A hand appeared on the top of the door panel, keeping it propped open before Steve could fully shut us in. He pushed against the wind currents to give the new man access inside, then promptly shut and bolted the door again. Steve looked up at the dusty figure patting down his black felt jacket in the room's center.

"Mr. Stark? Surprised to see you here," Steve said.

"Yeah, I'm just here on business." Tony replied, offhandedly.

The entrepreneur, saloon owner, and all-time flirt, Anthony "Tony" Stark had planted himself in the center of Jarvis business since the day he rode into town. The first train to come out of Kansas City left with the expectation of a completed route between their set of rails and La Mesa, two hundred miles west of Jarvis. The only trouble was, the La Mesa rail yard had it's own trouble. Funding, bad weather, worse workers, everything beat against it, preventing those tracks from laying down. Instead, the Kansas City train could take the westward traveler to one place between Missouri and California, and that was Jarvis, New Mexico.

Stark had more suits than anyone could count, all flamboyant, flaunty sorts with bright red panels, pink shirts, and silk handkerchiefs for every fair lady he came to meet. When asked why he ever abandoned the great city of New York, where he originally (and rather unsurprisingly) hailed, he said what many had. He was just passing through. Another dusty traveler in a crossroad town on his way to the next stop.

Tony Stark refused to travel by carriage. It was unbecoming of a gentleman, in his eyes, to subject himself to the transport with lonely widowers and strange men. Horseback, similarly, held little appeal. If he couldn't traverse a hundred miles by stage coach, hoofing it on horseback was an even taller order. Instead, he decided to wait out the rail.

He may have come into town with a pocket full of five dollars, two pearl handle colts, and exactly two bullets, but within the first three days of his stay in Jarvis, he became the owner of the most affluent hotel in town. A week later he'd renamed and repainted the place, bought the adjacent saloon, stocked the failing bar, and by the end of the first month he became the richest man in town. Rarely did he walk around these days with the pearl handles on his hips. Today, he strapped them on.

"Business?" Steve asked conversationally. "You already got your payment for the room and board, as well as the damages. Did you realize you needed a new gold tooth?"

Stark shot a slow, disproving glance, over his shoulder at Steve. The two didn't exactly see eye-to-eye on many things. They'd come into town around the same time and while Steve put his life on the line for a dollar a day, Tony entertained the populace and bled them dry.

"That implies I already have one. I don't."

"Just because it's not in your mouth doesn't mean you don't have one."

"Unfair, Rogers, that man broke three tables and my favorite mirror. He had no money, so he paid with whatever he could. Also, irrelevant." Tony strode to the jail cell door. Rogers came around to watch him, noticing at once the man put a wide berth between me and himself.

Tony skipped all pleasantries. "I want to hire you."

Rogers' brow furrowed. He wasn't sure he liked the sound of that, and what Tony would want with a drifter, he didn't know.

I stared plainly forward. "Oh? That's a new one."

"You want the job?"

I shrugged. The marshal gave me fifteen dollars to hoof it into town and hang around a while if I thought it might deter people from acting a fool. Apparently seven days from now, the Kansas City train was coming down with fifteen empty stock cars ready to fill with prime, New Mexican Territory beef. That meant over a thousand head were coming to burst this town at its seams.

"What's the pay?" I asked.

"Four dollars a day, room, meals, laundering, ammo paid as long as you want it. Credit at the general store and free bottle of whisky on Sundays." Tony had thought long and hard on the offer and it showed in the crispness with which he made the statement. He expected, like any normal man, that I would accept the job in an instant. Steve Rogers looked like he might throw his badge down on the table and take whatever Stark wanted if I refused.

"What's the job?" I asked. To the present company's shock, I did not seem fazed by the generosity. It was a struggle to do that. The marshal said, should I survive till the end of the month in Jarvis, I might make another fifteen dollars. This was a considerably better offer.

"Sitting shot gun at the saloon during busy hours. On every night from five to five, save Sunday when the law shuts us down." Stark angled a mean glance at Steve.

"Lookout chair? Bouncing?" I asked.

Tony nodded. His hands rested on the heel of both pearl handles, as if at any moment he might decide to draw and gun me down if I refused.

"You stay heeled like that all the time?" I questioned. I pointed to the Colts.

"I heard you're fast. Some say you're the best sharpshooter there is. I don't often trust people like that who I don't know, and I don't know you."

I thought about that, nodding a little. "I ever meet you?"

"No."

I continued to mull the idea over. "Don't know how long I'm staying for. But I'll work as long as I'm here. Keep that Sunday bottle. I don't like to drink when I'm working."

"Understandable given our recent interaction," Steve said. We turned to him, as if having forgotten the sheriff, the bars, and the fact that I was still currently under arrest.

"That doesn't normally happen. Yesterday was special," I said.

"Does "special" happen tonight too?"

I shook my head. "I lost my family four years ago. Yesterday just happened to be the anniversary. Sometimes I get a little out of hand."

The honesty with which I spoke affected Steve. Most men had that look on them. The one that says they want to understand and have nothing to say for it. He had it now, too. I didn't mind shocking people. Keeping them on their heels gave me an advantage over them that I liked.

"You don't know who he is, do you?" Tony said suddenly.

Steve glanced between the two of us.

"Clint Barton. The Hawkeye. You can use a gun, but I heard you're better with a bow. You never miss."

Someone did his research. I sat back, letting the wall support me. "That's right."

"Trained with some Indian scout or something."

I thought about the work I'd done in my past, the men who made me bleed to build me up. Buck Chisholm was half Apache and not a good half either. He beat me until nothing remained of the man I had been. Then he continued to break me apart until I somehow turned into something else entirely. Hawkeye. The natives gave me that old name. I used to try and live up to it. Now the name has come to mean something even more. Something, somehow, above human. When the war ended, so did that name. I decided to light out and make a new one.

I watched the expression on the sheriff's face slowly change from confusion, to vague recollection, and at last revelation's dawn. Hawkeye became as famous in the war as Steve "Captain America" Rogers. Funny how these two strange men met in the lonely little corner of Jarvis, New Mexico.

Stark waited for my reply. I decided to oblige him.

"That's right," I said.

His brows furrowed. "That's all you have to say?"

"Yup."

"You'll take the job?"

"Yup."

That seemed to satisfy him for now. Looking over at Steve, he said, "He's not drunk anymore, and I'm not pressing any charges. Might as well let him out."

Steve glanced over at me. I smiled.

"See, told you," I said smugly.

* * *

So what was going to happen next? Well, Thor and Loki were going to be blasting onto the scene, of course. Thor and Loki were, happily enough, the ACTUAL Thor and Loki enjoying a respite in the western earth years. We would discover that these characters we follow through a western escapade of cattle rustling, murder-mystery are in fact the ancestors of the characters we know today. And, as Thor is watching the interaction of his modern friends during a party, his mind has been reminiscing on all the events we have just read. He wonders if any of them realize that they were destined to be friends, even before their own birth.


	6. Stranded

_Hold onto your butts... here you will find an UNPUBLISHED addition to the infamous HAWKEYE INITIATIVE series. The full depths of which have NEVER before been seen by your eyes._

 _Here we learn about Kitty Barton._

 _Here we learn about the war._

 _Here...there be tragedy..._

* * *

 **Part 5**

 ** _Stranded_**

Prologue

Light spun around them like the tunnel in a kaleidoscope. He felt his body throttle end over end, then turn in mid space and slam back down into solid earth. Images flickered around him like projector slides. Air rushed out of his lungs. He struggled to inhale, but the magnetic pull ripped him off his feet again and threw him back into the endless vortex of space and time. Energy drained out of him as the fought back. It was like trying to overcome a rip tide. The harder he fought the farther from safety he flung. A body crashed into him, tossing him through the starburst walls of the vortex. He reached and clawed the air to find some purchase against the endless tunnel of light. A hand reached back. Someone grabbed him.

With the momentum from their collision, the two bodies were thrown through the side of the tunnel wall. They burst into the open air like two projectiles from a canon and hit a second stretch of dry land. Their bodies bounced from the impact, one grasped the other, they clung to each other like bouncing, rolling, rag dolls. The hard ground turned to mush, then water, and stopped at last when they slammed into a tree.

Slowly, groaning, the two bodies attempted to disentangle from one another. A sprained arm here, a tied up leg there, shield trapped beneath an arm, arrows scattered around all existed as landmines to overcome.

"Red one. Easy, Steve, that's a red one! Don't touch it'll blow both of us up." Clint winced as he peeled his back from around the buttress of a root. Out of the corner of his mud-caked eye he noticed Steve poised over a cluster of red-tipped explosive arrows that managed to escape his quiver.

Steve paused and looked around them. "Clint, there's twelve of these things."

"Give me a sec to get up. I'll get them. Just don't move."

"Where are we?"

"I don't know."

Clint slipped the strap of his quiver over his head and set it upright in the knot of tree roots. A cut above his eye slowly leaked red down the side of his face. Despite super healing, Steve didn't walk away from the worm hole unscathed either. The archer leaned beneath Steve and picked up the arrow shafts. He checked them to be sure nothing activated prematurely, and returned the lot of them to his quiver again.

"Remind me to never walk into Stark's lab again," Clint said. He checked his arms and chest for an accidental impalement.

"Makes two of us," Steve replied. With the arrows gone, he swung around in the mud and sat down. His eyes squeezed together and he hissed. "Mind getting this one out of my thigh?"

Clint cursed under his breath. He swept his hands through the mud and removed the remnant of the missing arrows before turning to the one in Steve's leg. It went clear through from the outside edge in, the standard tip stuck out of the muscle precariously close to the important structures between his legs.

"It's not going to blow up, is it?" Steve asked.

"Lucky for you, no," Clint lifted his head to take in their surroundings. There was little to see besides woods, bogs, and the occasionally mossy overgrowths that created islands here and there.

"We should get out of this mud," Steve said. He flipped his head backward and tried to indicate a clear spot with his shoulder.

"Copy that." Clint stood. He slipped the strap of his quiver back over his head and leaned over to pick the Captain's shield. He threaded the shield's arm brace over his arrow shafts, keeping it set against his back and freeing up his hands. He tried to lift the captain up. Roger's waved him off and stood on his own. Clint sloshed through the marsh to Steve's good side and slipped an arm around his chest to help him along. When they reached the clearing, Steve leaned down and stretched his legs out in front of him. Clint crouched beside him and took another look at his wound.

"Well if you were going to roll over one of my arrows, this was the best one to do it on. Spread your legs and try not to move. I'm going to unscrew the tip. If I slide this out you're not going to bleed to death or something stupid, right?"

Steve shook his head. "Not as far as I know."

"Remind me again how we ended up in this mess? And while we're at it, let's never tell anyone I did this."

Steve lifted an eyebrow as Clint reached between his legs and began unscrewing the four sided broad head. "You think I'm ever going to tell Tony about this? You must have hit your head."

* * *

Continue...if you dare...


	7. Stranded cont

**Part 5**

 ** _Stranded_**

Chapter 1

"No, I like this, I've got to say it makes a lot of sense. Hiding on the roof from a ninety year old woman? She'll never find you here."

"I'm not coming down." Clint said steadfastly.

"I didn't ask you too."

"I don't want anything to do with **his** family. I don't care who it is, I don't want to see them."

Tony crossed his arms over the blue arc in his chest. "I didn't tell you to do that either."

A helicopter flew over. It was one of many city tourist traps expressing an up close look at the day-to-day Avenger's lives. As it cruised up for a closer look, the boxer-clad Clint Barton waived shamelessly. A few girls donned in "Hawkeye 4-Ever" shirts nearly clawed their way out of the helicopter.

Tony looked up and sighed.

"I don't know how Pepper even found her. I'm not coming down. I don't want to see her. I've been doing really good at pretending I was immaculately conceived and I don't want to ruin that. Talking to someone **he** came from, that would ruin it."

Tony stood there looking down at him but gave up on talking to him.

"Besides, if she even cared, then why didn't they find her when our parents died? Why'd they just pack us off to the orphanage? She should have stepped in or something. I never even heard about her before today. My parents never spoke about them. That's weird, isn't it? To never talk about them? She's gotta be ninety. I'm not getting close to anyone who's planning to die tomorrow."

Tony's wrist plates peeled away to reveal the face of his watch. He made a big show of checking it.

"If my grandkids were in an orphanage I would have done something. If they were getting beaten every day I would have at least said something. But now? Today? What even made her come here at all?" Clint started to get up. "I mean, I have questions that need answering. She's been out of my life since before I was born. I think I deserve a little explanation, don't you?"

"Are you actually asking me?"

"No."

Clint pulled up the repel arrow he'd used to get to the roof and looped the rope around his waist. While Tony repulsed his way back to the normal living level, Clint made his own way down. When the archer really set his mind against something there was nothing anyone could do to convince him out of it. He could balk, throw a tantrum, or simply disappear for four months and mysteriously one day Tony would walk back into the living room and there Clint Barton would sit as if he'd never left at all. The entire fridge suffered at these long coming returns as well. If he left this time, no one had a right to blame him.

With their SHIELD backgrounds on public display when the Triscelion fell, the Avengers team had no trouble glimpsing into the true histories of the spies they associated with. Natasha had a host of her own issues to attend, from the hospital fire, to her previous life as a ballet dancer. The latter of which created an incessant need to nag her over such events that seemed so contrary to her current behavior. Clint, though, provided something very different for the team to gander at and became, quite possibly, the most tragic hero among them.

Bruce Banner grew up in a home infused in terror and fear before watching the murder of his mother by his own father, a history which no doubt added the fuel to his rage-filled fire. Steve Rogers came from humble, bullied beginnings as a parentless teen determined to join World War 2. Tony Stark, spoiled from the day he entered the world, lived in the shadow of an unfeeling father. Thor . . . that was an entirely different can of worms. But, despite everything the Avengers knew of each other, they assumed they knew the true heart of Clint. How very wrong they were.

He was a jerk, an endless prankster, and an incredible marksman. He had a propensity to get into trouble but even SHIELD left him to get out on his own. He was mortal, able to bleed, break bones, and lose his life if he didn't take special precautions in everything he did. And Clint Barton, above all else, was good. His positive attributes far outweighed his disagreeable knack for eating all the snack food or using explosive arrows in the gym at 3 a.m. As for what the higher power did to form the man they knew and cared about today, none of the Avengers truly comprehended.

Then, the Triskelion fell.

Clint Barton grew up in the little town of Waverly, Iowa in literally the middle of nowhere. He had a brother, Barney, who according to all recent accounts may still be alive somewhere though Clint denied having spoken to him in the last ten years. His father was a drunk, mother indifferent, and one night when the children were home alone both of the parents died in a drunk driving accident. Clint and Barney were sent by the state to live in an orphanage. Between his father's long track record of child abuse, hidden in a not-so-intricate cover up by some dirty cops, and the torment from bullies in the orphanage, Clint decided to run away with his brother. They ended up at the circus where the abused, bullied, child became the Clint Barton the Avengers knew today.

Clint rarely opened up about the things his father did to him, or the betrayal at the hands of his mentors in the circus, or the falling out he'd had with his only living relative, Barney. He refused to think of his past, knowing in some ways it was better to pretend he didn't have one. That was a difficult task to complete when Pepper Potts existed in the world.

She had a heart of gold in the end, but that heart considered the best way to bring a little humanity and closure into Clint's life was to track down a relative he never knew he had and bring the woman right into Avengers Tower as a surprise.

Rolling over in bed at seven in the morning, Pepper tapped his shoulder and promptly declared, "Clint! You'll never believe I could do it! She's out in the living room, I found your paternal grandmother and she can't wait to meet you!"

At which time, his response to her declaration included little more than climbing out the nearest window in his boxers.

"Think you should put some clothes on first?" Tony asked as they re-entered Clint's previous escape route.

Barton looked down at his white-and-red polka dotted drawers. "You don't think this is appropriate attire for a woman with one hand on a headstone?"

"I don't want you to offend someone who grew up with Abraham Lincoln." Tony replied. He tapped his wrist and the Iron Man suit clam-shelled open for him to step out. He stretched his neck left and right and swung both arms in large circles.

"That a new suit?" Clint asked, fishing around for his pants.

"Built it this morning. The padding's stiff like a new pair of jeans. You know, like the jeans you buy from a rack. Not the ones I get hand sewed onto me."

Clint smirked and dug beneath his bed for a shirt that didn't smell old. One that did, he threw at Tony who deflected it to the side.

"Tell me one more time how much richer than the planet you are. I think I missed it the thousand other times per day we spend together."

"I'm rich." Tony said.

Clint pulled his shirt over his head and tucked it into the waist of his jeans. "I'm decent, all right? Now can we get this over with?"

One hand swept widely to the right in a flourish that invited Clint to exit the room first. Barton passed his fellow Avenger and headed out the door. Tony walked along beside him. As far as he knew, the little old lady Pepper tracked down hadn't decided to leave yet. Stark hadn't seen her himself. He'd been stolen out of bed the minute Clint took off for the roof. There were few Avengers who could talk Clint into seeing his father's mother. The horrid relationship Clint endured with his parent ensured that if he had the choice, no one from that side of his family would ever be part of his life. Facing the woman that produced and raised the abusive man Clint had been slated with affected him deeply. What kind of woman must she be to have raised that sort of monster?

They entered the circular living room together. Pepper sat on the arm of the nearest couch with her back turned to them. It shielded the old woman, who had yet to flee herself, from view. Opposite of them Natasha stood in a cross-armed interest. Whatever they happened to be discussing was fascinating enough to keep her attention, never an easy task. Steve stood by the bar, extracting something from its fridge. He emerged holding two glasses of amber liquid, too tall and too early in the morning to be alcoholic. He grinned seeing Clint arrive of his own free will. Instead of returning to the group, he held out one of the glasses to Barton.

"Ice tea. She was thirsty. You should give it to her and introduce yourself. If you want to leave after that, we'll understand. No one's pressuring you on this," Steve said, planting one of the glasses in his hand.

"Don't think I can handle a single conversation with an old lady?" Clint said hotly.

"Her name is Kitty Jenkins. Her middle name is Alice. That's how she likes to say it." Steve said, ignoring the outburst. Without waiting for Clint to walk over, Steve went ahead of them and rejoined the group. He sat on the sofa beside Natasha's legs, inspiring the Widow to finally take a seat.

Clint walked over.

Continue...if you dare...


	8. Stranded conti

**Part 5**

 ** _Stranded_**

Chapter 2

Steve clenched his jaw as the arrow shaft yanked free. He was ready with the torn sleeve of his button up shirt and after Clint squeezed the wound for a few long minutes, the archer took the shirtsleeve and tied it into place. The other sleeve was balled up like a pad. He slipped half of it beneath the outer hole and the other against the inner.

"How long's it going to take for you to stop bleeding out?" Clint asked.

Steve shrugged. "Twenty minutes? Hour?"

"Ok." Clint reached back and grabbed the Captain's shield. He set it on the ground beside them then stood again, looking around. "I'm going for a quick loop around the place to make sure we're not somewhere that's going to kill us. I'll be back in twenty."

"Hey, be careful. I don't know about you but I could have sworn I saw a couple of dinosaurs duking it out at the first place we hit."

"Thank God you saw those, I thought I went crazy for a second!" Clint exclaimed. He glanced around, located his bow, and jogged over to pick it up. He had a few ideas about where in the world Steve and he might have been transported, but actually figuring that out required a little scouting around. He searched himself a second time for any more serious injuries and, finding nothing, waved a hand over his shoulder to the Captain. He headed into the woods alone.

It was hot. The kind of hot that makes even your lips begin to sweat. Already perspiration pooled from the back of his neck to his armpits with no signs of letting up. That made him consider water, clean water. In survival training it was the first thing he needed to secure before food or shelter. As he walked and scouted the area he kept track of that mental list and ranked the necessities by order of importance. There was no telling where they were, or how long they expected to be stuck.

The trees thinned ahead of him and he slowly fought his way through a tangle of marsh grass, hedges, and wild rose thorns. The wind, what little there was, changed direction in that moment and came trailing toward him. The scent it brought along dug through his nasal passages and socked a big, green fist right into his stomach. Clint choked on a swell of bile that fought its way up in response to the smell. Only now, drawing closer to the clearing ahead of him, the origin accompanied it.

Dead men, thousands, tens of thousands, lay in in the dirt and mud of that hot August day. Holes the size of minivans cut into the earth from some long ago percussion bomb, perhaps even mines. Filthy men, ballooning from their necks down in the throes of decomposition, all piled into one another as if to seek some comradery in their final moments alive. They were all dressed in one of two ways, but the unending theme remained: soldiers. Two sides of a fight where everyone lost.

Clint stumbled into the clearing to get a better look at what could have possibly caused the overwhelming destruction. The deaths went on for miles in either direction. Here and there the bodies of horses intermingled with men. Barbed wire and foxholes bit into the mud like massive jacks and tunnels. What grass once existed in the landscape had long ago given way to the trenches of mud and blood that now spoiled it.

His eyes crossed the field again, only this time they stopped cold. Someone who once crouched among the dead, like a body himself, suddenly came to life.

The man rose and a moment after so did a second, then a third and fourth. Within a few seconds an entire battalion rose from the depths of the foxholes. Clint stepped backward into the wood line. The little voice in his head that usually told him when something horrible was about to happen started screaming. Half a second later, the line of soldiers raised their rifles and without missing a beat, opened fire.

* * *

Continue...if you dare...


	9. Stranded contin

**Part 5**

 ** _Stranded_**

Chapter 3

The shield fell like a solid curtain of vibranium before Clint could even manage to blink. Steve grabbed him by the shoulder and together they drove headlong back into the hedge row of wild roses. Even as he fell, Clint pulled back his bow and placed a concussive tipped arrow on the string. The arrow let fly the minute he landed. The explosion rocked through the midst of the battalion. Men flew aside, scattered by the force.

"Get up!" Steve screamed in his ear.

Clint moved at once. They untangled themselves from the briers and hurled like possessed men through the tree line once more. Steve limped beside him, not sparring an ounce of muscle to keep up the pace.

"Don't stop! Don't stop! Run, Clint!" He cried.

Barton's heart pounded in his chest. He forgot to breathe. Blood rushed behind his ears like torrents of a tidal wave. On, on he ran with Steve pressing him harder, faster than he'd ever gone before. They ran for their very lives.

The marsh waters clung to their boots as they rushed through it. Trees behind them splintered apart under the onslaught of gunfire that chased the two Avengers into the woods. Clint's foot tangled beneath a hidden root and he was thrown forward. Steve caught him and dragged the archer up again. They never stopped, never so much as paused, and never looked back. Clint had no choice but to follow the Captain's panicked instructions.

The scent of death fell away like the rapport of the gun shots. Yet still they ran. After a time, when Clint knew he had to either stop or drop dead, he at last tore himself out of Steve's iron grip and pulled up to a halt. He jogged a little at first, heaving lungs full of air into his oxygen starved body. Steve skidded beside him and turned.

"What are you doing?!" He demanded.

Clint folded at the waist, holding a hand against his chest. "I think we . . . just cleared . . . four miles in like . . . twelve minutes. I can't breathe."

Steve looked at Clint as if the man had lost his mind to even consider not going further. He stopped himself, though, beforehand and truly considered all that just occurred. The weight of their circumstances dropped over him like a thousand pound anvil. Before he could stop it, his hands began to shake. They clasped together though it didn't help. His shoulders rumbled next as if a fevered chill cut through him. He blinked. The world flew out of focus. He didn't realize the full scope of his utter panic until Clint began to call his name.

"Cap? Cap, hey, what's wrong with you?!" Clint touched Steve's arm, though regretted the move instantly.

Steve never lost his cool, or his control. It was that unending confidence that made his opinion the first one Clint answered two when missions went south. Poised under even the most horrifying of situations, seeing his reaction to that field of bodies was something Clint never thought he would ever witness. Now, that tragedy seemed to shake the Captain to his very foundation.

Hand met arm and Steve never hesitated. His super-human speed snapped Clint's arm back, lifted a knee into the Avenger's gut and dropped him into the fetid, hot marsh waters. Steve's shield came down in his free hand to rest a mere inch from the brim of Clint's nose. The archer, though, wasn't completely defenseless. He'd managed to work an arrow free. It's broad tip shoved upward just as close to the flesh in Steve's gut as the shield was to Clint's face. A stalemate.

"Cap . . ." Clint said, very slowly, and very clearly. "I am going to drop my hand now. You are going to not kill me. Ok?"

"Oh my God," Steve whispered, stumbling backward. The shield slipped off his arm and cluttered to the marsh bottom.

Clint retracted the arrow and fed it back into his quiver. For good measure, he extracted a knife and held it along the length of his arm and out of Steve's line of sight. He lifted himself out of the mud and rotated his shoulder. Steve did a good job at wrenching it but, thankfully, stopped short of dislocation.

Steve winced as he sank back onto a fallen tree log. The pain from the arrow that passed through his leg had long gone forgotten. With the rush of adrenaline and soldier serum subsiding, he felt it again. Clint let the Captain have a minute to collect himself for both their sakes. Instead of pestering right away, Clint felt around on his scraped up arms to dislodge the tiny thorns randomly imbedded in his skin. Most of his cuts were superficial. He pulled a few others from the back of his neck and patted down his legs to scrape off the water and mud.

"Ticks, Cap," he said. A few of the spider like creatures were marching their way up his trousers, and weaving through his boot laces. When Steve didn't respond, Clint looked over at him. "I said ticks. We must have hit a nest of them. I've got like twenty on me. Check yourself."

Whatever dark place Steve temporarily banished himself too suddenly lifted. He nodded and patted down his own thighs, finding a few too many extra travelers just as Clint had.

"I guess we should be thankful they aren't leaches," Rogers said.

"I'd be happier if they didn't give me some weird disease every time one bit me," Clint replied. He picked up the Captain's discarded shield and set it up right beside the log. He knelt beside Steve. "So does this healing thing worked if you've got pond water and mud caked in your leg?"

Steve glanced at his filthy clothes. "Probably not that well."

"Didn't think so. You mind telling me where we are? You seemed to have a better idea than I do. Especially seeing as how I told you to stay put just a minute before you kept me from acquiring a new bullet hole."

"I don't know how it's possible we're even here. So I'm sorry if I tried to slice your face off a second ago," Steve said.

"You did just try to slice my face off, and you are forgiven for that, but you didn't exactly give me an answer either."

Clint looked around, trying to find any rays of sunlight passed what seemed to be the endless forest marsh. The trees and moss stretched on for what could have been miles in every direction. Despite zigzagging across a fair portion of it during their run, Clint failed to find another clearing like the killing fields they left behind. He wondered if it wasn't prudent for them to turn around and go back. Eventually that battalion would move on. Among so many dead there had to be at least some provisions, like food or water, to scavenge. He didn't see any tents or other permanent structures which meant some sort of command post had to be back there, somewhere.

"I think we're in Europe. I know we're in Europe. The army never made it further than Calais and I think we're North. It's hot. Too hot for Russia. Maybe something more west, like Belgium or Poland. Could be France."

"Army? Steve, I don't know about you, but there isn't a European war going on besides what our guys are doing in the desert." Clint lifted his arms to indicate their surroundings. "And this doesn't exactly remind me of Iraq."

"Clint, you might want to sit down." Steve said.

The once thundering heart in Clint's chest froze. "W.h.a.t?" he asked, enunciating every letter.

* * *

Continue...if you dare...


	10. Stranded continu

**Part 5**

 ** _Stranded_**

Chapter 4

Pepper turned slightly toward him and smiled. She said something, but he didn't hear it. As her body moved, he could see the woman sitting with her knees tucked primly together and her hands placed on top. Her silvery hair was short, cropped to the ears, and placed in simple curls. She seemed to have taken care with it that morning. She wore a little Sunday suit with a pink salmon suit jacket, white shirt, and black pants that went to her loafers. There were two old, worn out pennies in the tops of the shoes, as if they'd been placed there in the twenties and hadn't been removed since. A slightly undersized string of pearls hung around her neck, trapped beneath the lapels of the jacket. They matched the little snap-on costume earrings. In the end she looked like any other elderly woman headed to a Sunday church service.

When their eyes met, a stab went through Clint's spine. The inserted knife then traveled upward, slicing and twisting into him as the adrenaline release threw his heart into a full blown arrhythmia. She looked like them, like his father, or his mother . . . like someone part of his family would look. Staring at her reminded him of a mirror into the future. Apparently the affect wasn't lost on the woman either. Her mouth opened and she scrambled up on two replaced hips and knees that no longer bent at will.

"I—I saw the picture—the news and all, but I never . . . why, you do look just like him!" Kitty Alice Jenkins declared. Her hand reached up to her chest and held the heart that beat nearly as fast as Clint's own.

Tony took the glass from Barton's hand and placed it on the table between them before it had a chance to drop and shatter. Neither Clint, nor Kitty, broke eye contact.

"I'm nothing like him!" Clint felt his entire soul eek into that single, definitive, statement. He didn't raise his voice and neither did it shake but it took little to hear the emphasis in him.

Kitty shook her head, extending her crooked little hands. "No. No not him. Henry."

One hand reached into her jacket pocket as her feet shuffled away from the center table to him. Clint took half a step backward, threatening to run off again, but he held his ground. When she produced a photo and held it out to him, he took it with some reservation.

"You don't know him. His name was Henry Barton. God how I loved that man."

Clint broke eye contact briefly to consider the photograph. It predated black and white and existed in a sort of antiquated sepia. There was a young man sitting with his back straight, uniform tucked and proper, and a navy cap sitting on his head. Someone scribbled the date, Jan 1st, 1939, on the bottom in pencil. It was the only thing that kept Clint from thinking the photo had been taken of him. Or photoshopped. The authenticity screamed at him from every crease, texture, and smell of age.

"Now, I don't know that you ever saw a picture of your grandfather, so I thought maybe I'd bring this along. 'Course this is before I knew him. He was one of the kindest souls to walk this earth."

Clint held the photo a while longer, drinking in the sight of the man. Henry Francis Barton. Between him and Kitty Alice Jenkins, Clint's father, Harold, came into the world. If there was anyone he could blame, these people were it.

"Was. You said 'was'. He's dead?" Clint asked, handing over the picture at last. He didn't offer to show it to anyone else.

Her smile took on a slightly somber undertone. "Two years last week. Skydiving in the Maldives. The reserve chute didn't open when his primary's lines twisted. He knew well enough to cut the first free, but the reserve never opened." She gazed into the old portrait's face with a loving air. "I'll miss that man every day of my life."

No one in the room, apart from Natasha, could hide the surprise at learning Henry's cause of death.

"You're kidding me?" Clint asked.

Kitty returned the photo to her pocket and looked up into his face. She may have been a tall woman in her youth, but age, arthritis, and a curve in her back compressed her frame into little over four and a half feet. "Kid? If you are anything like Hank you would know when an old woman like me was trying to pull one over on you. Oh no. Hank died at the age of ninety on our anniversary trip. Sky diving was my idea and since he knew how to do it better than me he jumped solo and I went tandem. We were supposed to start sailing home the next morning. He died with the biggest, stupidest, grin on his face you would have ever seen on a man with only twelve teeth left in his head. And not all of them belonged to him, either."

Despite himself Clint smiled. Seeing his face light up had the opposite sort of effect in Kitty. She turned away, shuffled back to her seat, and eased herself down. Steve leaned forward and handed her the glass of Iced tea which she spent a time drinking quietly. Now intrigued enough to not run screaming from the room, Clint carefully made his way beside Natasha and sat.

"I'm sorry. I just never thought how much you could look like him. Even that smile . . . it reminds me how much I miss Hank." Kitty leaned forward and placed the drink on the table again. She held her crooked hands together, as if to hide their misshapen forms and prevent the looks of pity from the young, vibrant generations before her. She was old, and she knew it, but she hated that feeling she got every time she found herself in the company of young people. Her skin was too wrinkled, stiff, and aged. Her hair, once long and beautiful now cut short enough for her to manage alone. She couldn't speak to these people and expect them to understand her current life, full of nursing homes, dying friends, and a loneliness of being the one left behind. It was easier to speak of Hank, and their past together.

"He bet me forty dollars that I'd die two weeks after him. Of course that was back in '45 before the war ended, and to me that was a considerable amount of money. I don't lose bets easy, you see, and I never forget one. So here I am, ninety two and still around."

"That's amazing! What's your secret?" Pepper asked cordially. Seeing as no one looked to run for the hills, she decided to sit beside the woman and made her feel a little more at ease.

"Hank's was bacon grease. That man could eat an entire pack of bacon every day, and twice on Sundays. Doctor's always told us one day his heart would give out on him, but the parachute got him first."

Pepper laughed, the others did too.

Kitty smiled at Clint again. "I know you've probably got a host of questions for me. I thought about what some of those might be on the way here. Oh, I live in Cedar Falls. I heard your family grew up in Waverly. I'm so, very, sorry I never found you."

"Cedar Falls?" Clint exclaimed. The city was within spitting distance of his boyhood home.

Kitty nodded. "We have a farm there, Hank and I. It used to be quite the thing in the day. He bought it after the Great War from his uncle, Martin, and we spent the next few years making it up just right. We had the horses for a time, then the cows and my chickens. Hank always said they were mine. We had a daughter named Kathleen and a son soon after, Harold. We lost Kathy to tuberculosis very early on. Harold never liked the farm. Hank and he fought like devils day and night. The minute he had his chance to join the army . . . well," Kitty sighed. "I loved my boy. I found his bed empty one night and the note that he'd run off. It was about five years into the Vietnam War by then. All the other boys in town had been snatched up already. It was only a matter of time before he and Hank fought hard enough to drive him out. We hoped the army would be good for him."

Clint listened intently. He didn't want to hear about his father, but somehow in the way her words spun he couldn't help but be wrapped up by them. This is what made the father he knew. He was a product of war.

:(:):(:):

Clint sank down into the earth until his legs were crooked out in front of him. He propped up his elbows and trapped his chin against their palms. What Steve proposed simply wasn't possible. Not only was it impossible, the statistics of it would be like trying to hit a target twenty-five miles away with a bee-bee gun. He'd tried that once on a downhill slope, but it didn't work, even for him.

"Back in time?" Clint whispered, the idea sinking in to his bones.

Steve nodded. "I smelled the battlefield the minute you probably did. Some things you just never forget. Like fresh hay, or your dame's perfume. That," Steve slightly gestured in the direction from which they'd run. "I'll never forget that."

Clint's mind screamed to say something, but nothing came from his mouth.

"The date, a map, those are some things we need. It'll change a lot about what we're about to go through, Clint. If we're in Poland in 1941, then it's going to get worse for us. A lot worse. If we're in Germany and its 1945, then maybe we have a chance."

"Steve if we are where you think, then how are we supposed to get home?"

The Captain shrugged. "I don't know. Technically, I am home."

Barton shook his head. This was too much to take in at a time like this. He needed to focus on something else until the full spectrum of what mess they were stuck in hit him square on. Priorities mattered most. Water, food, shelter, safety. They needed to post a watch through the coming dark and move out at first light. Without saying his thoughts out loud, Clint got to his feet and began to search around.

Most of the water was muddy, hot, and stagnant. The one abundance they had was the moss. He brought his knife forward into his hand and used it to peel back a few long strips of bark. These he set on the ground. Next he started collecting handfuls of the spongier moss and stacked them on the log. Behind him Steve struggled up to help, but Clint told him to sit back down.

"If we are in World War II, I need you at 100%," Clint said. He returned to the Captain's side and set his gathered items down. Some he handed to Steve. They were two old hats to the survivalist game. Clint liked not having to explain what Steve needed to do with the natural material. He tended to spend the majority of his time with Tony on field assignments when Natasha wasn't around. While Stark could surely hold his own on the battlefield, his survival training ended when he escaped the desert cave. One couldn't find the billionaire outside of a twelve foot technology radius. Understanding how to squeeze fresh water out of a bed of moss simply didn't fly with him. Clint had a small idea about what they needed to do next. How Steve felt about that, remained to be seen.

Clint started in on the conversation slowly. "There's not much out this way. The only clearing we saw—"

"We have to go back there," Steve cut him off and affirmed at the same time.

"Gives us a chance at supplies. Water, food, ammunition. There was a battalion that chased us off, so I'm guessing they weren't friendlies."

"That's right. Germans, maybe some Italians too. They'll pick over the field. They seemed comfortable enough with the area. They may have a base nearby or defense post. We'll have to be careful," Steve said.

"Italians?" Clint asked. "I'm part Italian."

"Better keep that to yourself. Most of them fought with the Germans, Clint."

Barton shrugged. "You're working with my fifth grade education. The most history I got to was the civil war. And I don't know that the history books are right when they said the North won. Seems to me like both sides are still trying to kill each other today."

Steve smirked.

The archer motioned to the down tree Steve leaned on. "I'm going to make us up a shelter for the night. Take shifts?"

"Sounds good. We'll move out just before dawn. I'll take first—"

"I'll take first watch." Clint cut him off. "Right now you're the one who has an idea how to get around. So I need you on two working legs. I'll set everything up. You rewrap that leg."

Steve wanted to complain, or mention, that Clint was talking to Captain America. The man who ran down HYDRA during World War II at every weapons factor in Europe and beyond. The guy that parachuted out of Howard Stark's plane under heavy artillery fire, 30 miles on the wrong side of the war front and walked back home with a tank, trucks, and 400 rescued American souls. If he said any of that though, Clint would have had a little more reason to blow him off. The archer didn't care about any of his accomplishments. He knew only the mission. The mission now was survival and that was something Clint knew very well how to do.

Within half an hour he had the bones of the shelter made. By the first hour he was nearly finished. Steve helped arrange the tree limb sides to the A-frame structure and arrange the leaves above and moss beneath. They were lucky the highest point already faced beyond the wind. The ground beneath it was relatively dry. While Clint fleshed out the inside, he passed his lighter to Steve.

"It's going to get cold tonight. I don't want the temptation. Might give us away," Clint said.

Steve accepted the token and slipped it into his pocket. Night descended on their little spot in the muck. Steve crawled feet first into Clint's new shelter. Sleep didn't come to him easily but Barton gave him time to find it. For that matter, so did the Germans.

He wanted to be the first on watch. He needed that time in the quiet of the night so he could set his mind straight. Was this even possible? Could Tony have screwed around in the scientific realm in such a way that Steve and Barton had been sucked in never, to get out again? Steve might have that chance at a life he missed out on. He might even be happy to be back in the age he left behind. But where did that leave Clint? He paced a distance away from the shelter. He wanted a wide view of their area in case someone stumbled out of the woods into their camp.

"Hell," Barton whispered. He'd left Natasha behind with Tony, Bruce, and everyone else. Anyone Clint knew in life was seventy ears into the future. He didn't know how he planned to get out of this one alive.

An overwhelming hum seemed to cut through the air. It sounded like frogs, only louder. The crescendo increased, higher and higher, until it was all Clint could hear. He leaned forward out from beneath the tree tops and glanced into the sky. The closer they came, the louder the hum grew. Streaking across the night sky were planes. The sound of their propellers reminded him of a beehive he once found attached to his shed door. Only these bees were thousands of feet straight up. They crossed the sky from one end to the other, leaving trails of white fuel plumes in their wake. They passed overhead in three layers, hundreds thick.

Clint stepped into the open moonlight a little more as he watched them go by. He simply couldn't fathom what his eyes saw. There couldn't possibly be so many of them. Each one full of four or five souls. All those men and boys just flying over the earth waiting to drop the bombs or fire the guns. Someone told him once wars weren't fought in current times the way they were back then. Clint didn't fathom that idea until just then.

He should have been on watch. Maybe it was the better decision to let Steve stay up instead. But Steve wasn't there to save him. Clint let him rest and in doing so he broke his own cardinal rule. One on watch, stays on watch. They don't let up, not even for a second. Coulson drilled that into him every day of his SHIELD life. Why had this place made him forget that?

He took his eyes away from the war flying over his head to concentrate on his immediate surroundings. A noise drifted to him from the dark. Feeling exposed, he slunk into the shade of the low overhang, unfocussed his vision on the world around them, and waited for movement. One hand reached into the quiver beside him and extracted a standard arrow. He brought it to his bowstring.

He heard the slide action of an unfamiliar sounding rifle jack into place. Clint entire body went stiff and cold as he sank down on his haunches. He pulled the bowstring to his lips and waited, looking, watching.

Gunfire erupted from the brush to his left. Clint ducked down. He still couldn't see where the assailant lay. He had to shift position, risk standing and try to get behind whoever it was. Steve shifted awake in the cover of the A-frame. He was a sitting duck.

* * *

Continue...if you dare...


	11. Stranded continued

**Part 5**

 ** _Stranded_**

Chapter 5

"Steve, get down!" Clint had to risk calling out to the Captain. He might end up revealing his position but it would save Steve from getting cut to pieces too.

The shelter stopped moving. Presumably the Captain took his advice. Clint got to his feet and ran sideways through the muck and slop. The gunfire returned. It trailed after him with the rapport of an automatic rifle. Clint dodged left. He skidded into the side of a fallen stump and drew his arrow back again.

A shocked soldier stood in front of him. He wore a black, metal helmet that crunched low over his eyes. His face was covered in mud which tangled through his grizzled and unkempt beard. It was hard to make out the swastika on the front of his jacket, but it was there all the same. Coming face-to-face with Barton, the soldier did what came naturally to him. He raised the weapon, the wrong decision, and Clint sent the ready arrow through his chest.

Clint looked around and waited. He listened for radio calls or other signs of life in the endless marsh but nothing more came. The hum of the overhead planes died away and all at once the lifeless swamp fell into an eerie quiet.

"Clint?" Steve called out when he thought it was safe. "You all right?"

"I think I just killed a Nazi," Clint replied.

"Where are you?"

"On your left."

Steve emerged from the dry clearing. Clint crouched beside the dead man and extracted his arrow. They were a precious commodity now. He couldn't afford to lose one.

"Nearly shot me. He didn't give me a choice," Clint said.

"Should search him."

Clint patted down the soldier's outer pockets. Steve leaned over and removed the soldier's helmet. He pried off the tin swastika with his fingers and held the helmet out for Clint to take from him.

"He's just a kid," Clint whispered, staring into the face of the boy he killed. The German soldier wasn't old enough to grow facial hair, let alone be stumbling around in the woods during the dead of night.

"They're all kids. Most of them," Steve replied. He shook the helmet to try and get Clint's attention.

Barton, though, continued to stare at the boyish features. He'd seen children used as suicide bombers in Iraq. He'd been exposed to war before, but this. . . this was so much different to him. He had more than stepped into a history page. He was living it.

"Clint, put this on."

The archer turned and looked up at him. "What for?"

"You've been shot in the head once before. There's a lot of flying bullets in these parts, and the last thing I need is one to hit you. This is not negotiable."

:(:):(:):

"Harold left home on the Fourth of July in '65. He never came home. We never saw or heard from him again. Hank had a few friends still in the government and they tried to find him for us, but the best they knew was Harold had been killed in Hanoi. He'd run off, left his platoon, and hadn't been heard from since. He was wanted for desertion, but back then a lot of boys were," She glanced at Steve. "You know what its like. Over there. Wars today aren't fought like that anymore."

"Oh no, nowadays they just send us guys in fancy suits to take care of things," Tony said. He sank down into his arm chair.

Steve, though, agreed. "Hank was in the Great War?"

"He landed on Omaha beach in the Battle of Normandy. At first he thought he would join the navy, but he decided he like paratrooping much more. He said he could see better up there, and he wasn't much for being stuck on a boat with a bunch of other men all the time. He joined the 517th."

"Omaha?" Steve shook his head, old memories surfacing of the day he himself rode the duck boats across the channel and onto the beaches of Normandy with his men. D-day. It was pure hell in the sand. Men died in the bay, drowned in their boats, never made it to shore where the Germans waited to cut them to pieces. He could still hear the aerial bombardment echoing in his ears from that horrible day. Some called it America's greatest strategic move against the Germans. Steve knew firsthand the truth. It was a killing field, and Omaha was the worst beach out of the five to be on.

She could tell by the darkness flooding into his face that Steve understood exactly what she meant, though the others did not. "He wasn't supposed to be, but the weather turned on him and blew him out of his landing zone. He hit the ground when the first mines blew, but he was behind the lines, by the cliffs. Over a thousand men hit that beach that day."

"More than half of them never made it to the cliff," Steve whispered. "He was one of the fortunate ones."

"I was in the Red Cross. They had two navy ships of us waiting for the casualties. When most of the fighting was over, a few of us volunteered to set up a hospital on the strait. I went along, and that's the first time I met Henry Barton. He'd broken his ankle hitting the rocks on his way down to the beach. He still managed to clear three houses, take some stamps, and showed up on my bed a week later with a bullet hole to boot."

"He took stamps?" Pepper asked.

Steve explained. "Some of the soldiers, if they shot a German, would rifle through their pockets looking for coded messages, cigarettes, anything that would help them. Some took stamps. They were easy to stow, light, and it told you how many lives you took over there."

"I met Hank when he had forty three stamps after Normandy," Kitty explained. "After the war we had quite a collection more."

"Red? Führer's face on them?" Steve asked.

There were a few variations of the common stamps found in German soldier's pockets during those days, but Kitty confirmed she had seen many that resembled the ones Steve described. Hearing Henry Barton had been a paratrooper during the war gave them a better prospective as to why his death involved jumping out of a perfectly good airplane at nearly a century old. After their love blossomed in the sands of Normandy, the two lovers parted ways, as many soldiers and nurses do, and thought they may never see one another again. Two months into his rehab his company was called out to the drop on Southern France for Operation Dragoon. However, fate threw them together again when in December of 1944, Henry's plane was shot out of the sky over Belgium. He survived the crash landing in Poland, carried his only other surviving crewmember to the closest rescue, and was captured along the way by Germans.

"What part of Poland?" Steve asked.

Her eyes flashed in pained memories, ones he no doubt shared. The team became fascinated watching them speak to one another while Clint enjoyed the attention diverting away from himself. He preferred to be a passive observer as the history came pouring out.

In response to his question, Kitty unbuttoned her felt buttons and slipped her crooked fingers through the sleeve of her jacket. On her left arm a faded black number, six digits long, had been tattooed by a shaky hand.

"I saw Hank again between the fence at Auschwitz. They took me and the two other nurses I was with, in October. I'm Jewish, oh, I don't think you know that," she suddenly realized and mentioned it to Clint. She smiled. "My father was. Once I saw Hank at that terrible place I knew I was going to be all right."

"We liberated Auschwitz in January." Steve said.

"I grabbed Hank, he grabbed me, and we never let go until the day he died." Turning to Clint again, she said, "We never thought that if Harold had survived that war he'd ever come home. Then I saw you one day, and I just . . . I couldn't let myself believe it. Then Miss Potts tracked me down and," tears began to form in the corners of her eyes. For the life of her, she could do nothing to hold them in. Pepper leaned over and trapped the woman's hands in hers, then threw a sympathetic look at the archer.

"She told me about your parents and I wish . . . how I wish we could have known. Well, I just wanted to say hello. You seem like you turned into a mighty fine young man. I wish Hank were here to see you. He'd be so proud!"

Clint grinned despite himself. There was something so magnetic about the old woman. It made him feel like a heel instantly having run out on her. Did he believe her? Yes. Did he want to know more about his father? Never. Did he want to know everything possible about Henry Barton, his apparent war hero of a grandfather? Hell yes.

"Do you want to go out to lunch?" Clint asked unexpectedly.

Her face lit in excitement. "Oh, would you mind an old woman hanging on you?"

He screwed his nose. "Old? Who said old? I only take hot dames out, Steve'll tell you. In fact, he might even invite himself along. I'm sure you heard plenty about Captain America in those days."

Clint stood and offered his hand to her. Overjoyed, the woman got to her feet. Though Steve didn't mind the brief trip down memory lane, it dredged up too many old memories for him to dwell on. He excused himself. Tony, Pepper, Natasha, and he watched as Clint headed off for the elevator. The salmon-suited 4-foot woman held onto the crook of his arm.

* * *

So….what was going to happen next? Well, in this story, Clint and Steve would entertain a pure WW2 fueled adventure. Crisscrossing into enemy territory as Clint discovered just what went into the creation of Captain America. They would run into the Howling commandoes, at the same time dodging Steve's past self, and the Captain might even get that dance he always wanted with Peggy, albeit briefly. Clint disappears in a prison camp and, inexplicably, finds his grandparents developing their own love story across ten feet of barbed wire and snapping dogs. So many plans for the epicness of this, and yet here she lies abandoned. Maybe, one day:)


	12. Roaring World

**Part 6**

 _ **Roaring World**_

 _(This Is Roaring World, what would have been inserted as part 18 of my Hawkeye Initiative Series. Set between the timelines where Young Clint meets old, This details what events linked up to Clint meeting Star Lord for the first time, how Stark was paralyzed, and what it took to save Earth, yet again._

 _The set-up is this, Clint and Tony ended up on a Kree ship retreating from earth after a massive invasion was repelled. Clint and Tony sacrificed themselves to stow aboard and blow the ship out of space before it had a chance to bring on the rest of the Armada who, unknowingly to them, Star Lord and the Nova Core are already attacking.)_

:(:):(:):

"Remind me why we thought this was a good idea, Tony?"

"I can't feel my legs!"

"'Cause at first, I thought we both said this was a good idea."

"Clint, I can't feel my arms!"

"I'm seriously doubting that decision right about now."

"Clint, for the love of God, I can't move!"

The archer dragged himself out from under a slab of black metal and alien concrete. He could just make out the tangle of Tony's legs half a basketball court away. Five, maybe six, fires sprouted between the two of them along with the tangles of destroyed aircraft. Burning fuel gave a pungent odor to the air. With hundreds of gallons of the stuff exploding all around them it was only a matter of time until the Avengers were caught up in a blast they couldn't escape from.

Clint grabbed a handhold of tangled wreckage to try and pull himself up, but the entire pile shifted under his weight and threatened to come down on him.

"Clint, where are you?!" Tony asked.

The archer tried to adjust his legs, got them under him, and made it to his knees. A sheet of serrated alloy spanned the free space just above his head. A few spears of its sharpened struts jabbed into his back.

"Clint?!"

"I hear ya, Tony. I'm here," Clint replied. He crawled forward on his knees to get out from beneath the metal overhang and better look around. To his direct right, a fuel-fire erupted all at once and flash-burned toward his face. Barton threw himself left to avoid the worst of the blaze. He hit another mound of concrete and metal struts, but at least he avoided the flames.

"I need you right now, this fire's getting too close and I can't move!" Tony exclaimed.

"Ok. I'm coming," Clint replied. He yanked himself up over the mound of crumbled concrete and tried to get a look at Tony's position. "What's on top of you?"

"I would tell you if I could move, but I _can't_! It's hard to breathe."

The mound Clint climbed suddenly slid out from under him. Everything shifted like the top snow of an avalanche. Clint raked his fingers along the ground, shredding his nails in his attempt to get a hand hold and prevent him from tumbling to the tangle of sharp metal below him. His wrist snagged in a loop of steel, halting his progression in a single rough snap.

"Clint, are you all right?!" Tony exclaimed, hearing Clint scream when his wrist caught.

The archer slowly struggled under his own weight, he pivoted around his wrist, dug one boot into the pile of once great warship metal, and slowly dragged himself up. He finished the one-armed pull-up and managed to peel the metal back just enough to free himself, but being loose created another problem. With nothing keeping him attached to the wall, Clint free fell backward.

"Whoa! Crap!"

"Clint, what's happening?!"

The archer spun in midair like a cat and faced the swift coming ground. He reached out to another adjacent pile of debris and grabbed a rung that jutted out toward him. The minute his weight hit the metal, its unsupported end gave way, a second pile of smoldering debris dislodged, and Clint fell the remainder of the way to the ground. He hit his back and rolled to the side instantly to avoid being buried under the avalanche.

"Clint! Talk to me! I can't move. I have no idea what's going on! Clint? Clint!"

Barton stayed on his side. He'd somehow avoided the spears piercing skyward, the well of molten steel, and being buried alive. Tony's voice drifted over their comms, a constant reminder that Barton was not alone in this strange place they'd landed.

"I'm all right." Clint called. "I'm in some sort of support column. It's hollow. I think I'm still above the ground. Where are you?"

"I'm the guy in the red and gold suit hanging over a cliff. Where do you think I am?!" Tony shouted back.

Clint army crawled through the hollow beam. Since the moment they crashed in this desolate wasteland, he had no clear understanding of what brought them to the crash site. That changed when he reached the end of the platform. He emerged on his hands and knees. His head swiveled to look out over what exactly he'd done and the memory returned like the smack of freezing water poured down his back.

As far as his eyes could see, there was nothing but burning black metal and twisted structures. The rectangular prism that once served as a Kree ship was spread out along the jagged moon surface in all directions. Above him he could see the peculiar warbling sky that attested to the failing artificial environment. It must have expanded up from the ship's generators. Any minute and that oxygen bubble might come crashing down on them.

Clint tore his eyes away and instead looked around for Tony. He saw the man flat on his back overhanging a cliff. The Iron Man suit was worn out. Scrapes and hunks of its outer shell had been peeled away in the fight or the crash itself. The long loop of ionized chain which had been used by a Kree warlord to hang the billionaire was still curled around Tony's neck. As for what was on top of him, Clint found nothing.

"You seriously can't move? Are your systems down?" Clint asked, spying a way down to Tony's level that didn't include a suicidal result. He found a few, treacherous, handholds and slowly climbed down.

"If I could, I would. Everything's still on, I think. I can't look down, my head's stuck. What's on top of me?" Tony asked.

Clint didn't have the heart to tell him nothing was there.

* * *

Que the ongoing, endless angst of dealing with Stark's mental acuity trying to overcome the reality that he may never walk again. Again, an unfinished project I may one day take up again.


	13. The Descendants

**Part 7 -For now, the Final Part-**

 _ **The Descendents**_

 _(These first chapters were available for a short time only under the heading "Heirs and Assassins" though the original title was The Descendants. This is the story, the "final" story in the Hawkeye Initiative Series. I never ended up finishing it all the way through. The Intergalactic colossus that was I Can Hear the Drums literally took all that was in me to create it in the way I always wanted. So this story was left to writhe on its own. Following these first few chapters, you, reader, will get to glimpse the utter showdown that is Hawkeye vs. Black Panther as Clint Barton tries to return to earth following his forced exile in Alfheimr._ _)_

:(:):(:):

 **Heirs and Assassins**

Prologue

 _You always read those stories where x character gets together with y character and they live happily ever after. They raise some weird kids that will never actually exist and somehow that kid is everything fan-theories could come up with and more. They are gods among their peers. Perfect angels of emo and joy combined. Cutting, depressed, or uplifting and bubbly renditions of the people that created them. Unequivocally loved or held to high standards. Emotionally depressed, repressed, living in the shadows of forefathers they could never fully live up to._

 _I'm not them._

 _If I have to repeat that, then we are going to have a problem._

 _I'm Alice. I'm not a random name generated by "band name generator" via google. I was named for my grandmother. I don't fly the banner of being the BlackHawk fantasy child everyone in the universe hoped would happen, because everyone thinks my father is dead and my mother ran off. There is a lot of history here you should probably catch up on, because I don't have the kind of time to fill you in._

 _My home is the epicenter of three of the Nine Realms, and two separate galaxies. Loki helped make that happen, but again, that's another story. My dad is trapped on Alfheimr, the realm of elves, though I think he has gotten used to it. My mom lives with us and can travel wherever she wants. Down our hallway are portal doors. Tony calls it our Hobbit Hole. Through one of our doors is Asgard. I used to spend a lot of time there before classes started. James Rogers and Magni (we call him Max) Foster/Thorson lives there. Through another door is Earth, or the Stark Tower to be more accurate. Benjamin Stark is another friend of mine, even if he is a pain in the neck. I honestly don't know why our fathers get along._

 _It's the first school year I'm leaving the place that's been my home for so long. Aunt Pepper said it'll be good for me. I challenged her good judgement. Max and Jim are coming along, cause obviously our school doesn't have enough hero kids in it already._

 _This looks bad._

 _I said it was a bad idea._

 _Just remember that._

* * *

Continue... if you dare


	14. The Descendants con

**Part 7 -For now, the Final Part-**

 _ **The Descendents**_

Chapter 1: Debriefing

"Backpack?"

"Yes."

"Books?"

"They don't do books, dad."

"Pens?"

"What's a pen?"

Clint looked up from the carefully formulated list Pepper created for him, and even took the time to print. Alice sat across from him with her most innocent of smiles. She got that from Natasha, whether the girl's mother wanted to admit it or not. Clint liked to think that the majority of his affable charm became seeded in Alice's young life, but he knew the best, and most influential, part of him showed in that silly little smirk she had. Somehow, Natasha became the innocent half, and Clint the mischievous one. The only one surprised, was Clint himself.

"Dad, seriously, it's fine. I did the whole pre-pack bag thing last night. It's not like I'm the only one there, so relax. If I forget something, I'll just steal it from Ben." Alice slung the backpack over her shoulder.

She'd gone on a shopping trip, one of the only such excursions she'd ever agreed to, only a week ago. Pepper and Natasha dragged her through every store in New York, and what did she come back with? A bright purple backpack. Clint didn't even think she liked the color purple. Most of what she owned, reminisced typical Alfheimr colors. Silvers, greens, occasionally golden yellow. All of a sudden, there it was. Purple. Hawkeye-purple, people liked to call it. Clint often smiled at that. The world at large never knew the reality of him surviving a jump to his death on an alien world years ago. The few doctors who claimed to see him, were made to believe otherwise. Clint remained a legend to the population of Earth, meaning the objects he'd left behind at the archery range he bought and funded with some (stolen) retirement money, were considered museum pieces. The ugly, purple cowl Tony once made him as a joke, had been found, framed, and hung on one of the walls. Somehow, that simple act rewrote everything about him. Officially, his favorite color was purple, and nothing could be done to convince anyone otherwise.

Alice knew better, but decided to display support for her father in a way the world would recognize. She didn't take his name, or even her mother's, on the enrollment papers. He told her she could. Technically she could do whatever she wanted. On Alfheimr, names were given differently than a lot of other worlds. Occasionally they were passed down in one generation or two, but usually they were given by a close friend after a certain age or characteristic came to light. Rinon, the king on Alfheimr had been Alice's tutor since she was born. He had yet to give her a name, and therefore she wouldn't pick one.

Clint felt like he was parenting Mimi-Siku from a Tim Allen movie.

For convention, they went simple. She was Alice Black.

Alice was an introvert for the most part though occasionally she surprised him with an extrovert who reared its eccentric head, and she did something uncharacteristic, like buying a purple bag or talking to a store clerk. Both of which occurred during her shopping trip. Finding her Midgardian clothes for school had its own challenges. Clint had yet to see what she'd ended up with. Most of her young life, she'd been educated on Alfheimr. High school, according to Tony, Steve, Pepper, and everyone else in the known world, required the so called 'high school experience'. Clint and Natasha didn't know much about that. Neither entertained any normal education, but Benjamin Stark, James Rogers, and Magni Foster (he'd taken his mother's name for enrollment, to prevent excess attention) were all heading to the same school. Each had endured their own education in their home realms, and only Ben had any experience with Earth schools. The younger Rogers kids, twins Tryggr and Fallon, might begin their education in the same school to keep the Avengers' offspring together.

"Will you actually talk to Ben today?" Clint asked, gently.

Alice considered it. ~"I did say steal,"~ she signed.

"I steal from Tony all the time. It happens. Be nice to the others, though, but don't let them shove you around. I'm sure your mother has tips on that."

~"Always does. Not my fault I'm the only girl."~

"Betty Ross' kids have been staying with Bruce for a while now, so her daughter might be there. Try to make friends. And don't stab anyone!"

She gave him a long look. Another thing she'd inherited from Natasha's side. Alice had a traumatic entry into the world to say the very least. She never started speaking until she turned five. One day she wasn't talking, and then the next, she came right up to Tony and declared, "I think your hair looks awful funny under your chin. Why don't you ever shave it like my daddy?" Tony's jaw fell open, and he shot a look toward Clint. As of that moment on, she spoke and signed almost interchangeably. Half the time, she hardly realized when she did one or the other. In the comfort of people she knew, Alice excelled. She had a fluency in Elven, English, Russian, and Italian that rivaled most modern day children, not to mention American Sign Language. Certain social situations, saw her clammed up tighter than two attached magnets. Other times caused Alice to fall into a role, like Natasha or Clint's spy team background, transforming her into someone else entirely. It was that second part of her personality that the general world might get a glimpse of day-to-day.

High school, on Earth, in New York, for the first time ever amongst peers her age, would be a challenge she might hate to conquer. For now, she appeared excited to go.

"Mom will drive you in, she's downstairs getting the car together with Pep. Benjamin should be down there already, unless Uncle Tony had to drag him out of bed. Class starts at eight. Class ends at four-thirty. I think Tony's planning to pick you up."

"Home room is in A131, second period's with Max. Dad, I got it." Alice leaned over the kitchen table. "Stop being a helicopter, dad."

Clint laughed, closing the distance to plant a kiss on her cheek. "You don't even know what a helicopter is."

~"I do too! Ben showed me a picture."~ Alice grabbed her leather lunch bag, grabbed a muhl fruit off the counter, and had just about headed up the hall when Clint called out to her.

"Leave the muhl! Earth kids don't have those."

Alice stopped in her tracks, sighed, and rolled the fruit onto a shelf with her hand. She continued forward without looking back.

:(:):(:):

Benjamin Stark slid over on his side of the car, allowing extra space for Alice to climb into the SUV beside him. He finished tapping something out on his cell phone, clicked it shut, and shoved the small stick it folded into down his pocket. He flipped a smile at her.

"Elf," he said.

"Francis," she said his middle name.

They exchanged squinting glares that lasted hardly a minute before the two began to laugh. Ben broke out first, causing Alice to lean over and poke him in the side, declaring her victory. From the third row, a silent Magni leaned forward and, swift as a cat, wrapped both of his arms around her chest. Alice shot up in her seat, though she never screamed.

James and Magni both appeared between the second row's headrests.

"Ah, cousin, how fairs thee this fine day?" Magni asked conversationally.

Alice spun around on him and glared. "Velu me ekanu melaha nu tuven!"

James' face squeezed together, eyes widening at the insult he perceived she shared. "Ooh, Max, she just called you out!"

"The sharpness of your elven tongue will do nothing to defeat Vigspar should I wield him in battle against your bow."

"Your hammer would rather me wield it, the way even Mjolnir bends to my father's will," Alice seethed.

James buried his laughing against his shoulder, while Magni changed to a brightened red then purple. Bested, for now, he retreated back to his seat and folded his arms across his chest. His elbow struck out, catching James in the side. The son of Steve folded over with an "oof".

The two front doors of the SUV pulled open. Natasha slid behind the driver's seat, and Pepper the passenger. The former Black Widow sent a sharp gaze through the rearview mirror at her daughter.

"I don't think your father approves of cursing in elvish. I don't care if it was him who taught you how to say it."

Alice turned around in her seat again, and fit on the safety belt. ~"Sorry."~

"That's OK. Max deserved it. Max, you better not have that hammer of yours in the back of this car. And if you do, any attempt to bring it to class with you, I will break your left leg." Natasha stuck the keys in the ignition, and the engine rumbled to life. She adjusted the mirror, allowing her piercing green eyes to laser through Thor's son.

"Uh . . . no, Aunt Tasha. I left it at home," Magni replied, dropping his Asgardian accent. Natasha knew full well he spent every weekend since birth, Earth-side, and a little extra in the winters and summer. He spoke English better than his mother did.

"Good. Jim, where are the twins?" The mirror flipped again, landing on James Rogers.

"Mom's still trying to convince dad to let them go through Asgardian war school instead of middle school. So far, mom's winning," Jim said.

Pepper turned around in her seat to look at him. "And did you boys not feel like Asgardian war school?"

"Hell no, that place freaks me out. Volstagg sent his son there, the guy is like eight feet tall and five hundred pounds. He should play for the Jets," Magni shouted.

Beside him, James rapidly shook his head side to side. His twin brother and sister were two years younger than himself. They'd been built specifically out of his mother's warrior spirit, and his father's upstanding patriotism. Tryggr and Fallon were smart enough to invade a continent, and strong enough to do it alone. James occasionally called them Orthrus, the two-headed, canine brother of Cerberus in Greek mythology.

"OK, so maybe tomorrow they'll be along. Ben, do you have everything?" Pepper asked.

Ben sighed, rolling his eyes. He extracted a hard-cased wallet from his pocket. "I digitalized all of my notes for the next year, and coordinated them by date, home room, and teacher. I didn't feel like being a backpack guy," He threw a superior gaze around his fellows. "so I used a few Pym particles to shrink the essentials. They'll reanimate after I find my locker assignment. It's not a big deal."

Alice kicked his shin with the point of her shoe, and Ben shot up in his seat, clutching the offended limb.

"Try being condescending again, and I will kick you in the ribs," she whispered.

He closed the space between them. "Hey, maybe I didn't want anyone finding out that I bought a bright purple backpack."

"It was Hawkeye's colors, and I'm sewing my dad's crest on it. I bet you got fire-engine red and gold," she shot back.

"No, I got black and metallic Si blue, because that's what my Storm Guard suit will be."

"When it's done?"

"It's almost done."

Satisfied, they retreated to their separate sides of the car. Natasha watched their exchange, smiling inwardly. Clint and Tony did it all right. They made two near-replicas of themselves. Arguing little hellcats that were thicker than thieves.

Jamming the car into gear, Natasha pulled forward out of the parking space, and gunned it through the underground lot. They blew through the stop gate, screamed through an intersection, and shot off down the back alley of Stark Tower. The kids in the back hollered in terror and excitement at her driving antics while, apparently used to it, Pepper merely grabbed hold of the dash board with both hands and closed her eyes, head firmly tucked between her knees.

"All right, kids, you're starting high school, so listen up," Natasha debriefed them like a military invasion, weaving the SUV in and out of city traffic at impossible speeds. She could feel Ben's knees climbing the back of her seat, using it as a bracing point to keep himself from rocking back and forth all over the middle row.

"Day one, so I've heard, is the most important. Don't stand out like a bunch of buffoons, and the first person who gets involved in a class prank is going to hear it from me." The wheel spun rapidly to the left, the tires screaming as they drifted around a corner and blasted off in a new direction. "And if you don't think we have no idea what you are doing day-to-day, then I have a big surprise for you. So don't be stupid, do your school work, do not get pregnant or get girls pregnant. This school was designed specifically because of the boom people had after the Galactus war. Suddenly, all Earth's heroes drifted back home and every powered person who claimed a role fighting Heralds of Galactus, ended up with babies. Think of it like the Xavier Institute, just with more radioactive spiders. This will last for four years of your life, unless you screw it up. Don't screw it up."

She made another hairpin turn, cutting off a city bus, two taxis, and squeezed between a guard rail and dump truck.

"Someone has a problem with you, it's their problem, not yours. You have not been granted leave to be Avengers, so don't act like you are. That means weapons stay at home. People know who you are already, but guess what? Just because you're the son of Thor, does not mean you get to pick on Peter Parker's kid."

Natasha jumped the curb, spun the SUV into a full 360 degrees, and perfectly landed them in a parallel parking spot twelve inches away from Bruce Banner. He wore a pair of pleated, grey suit pants, and stood with his hands relaxed in their pockets. A cream white button down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, covered his chest. A grey vest went over the shirt, its front a relatively plain type of pinstripe, while the back displayed an intricate silk black-on-black pattern. Ever since he and Ross had gotten back together, his style had taken a turn for the better.

For the first time, Natasha turned and faced the four of them. "The most important thing: Bruce Banner is your principal. You screw up, he doesn't even have to tell us. He has full reign to deal with you himself. And trust me, he is looking forward to it."

Four pairs of eyes darted toward the doctor and former Princeton Professor. When exactly he transformed from their kindly, childless uncle, to the utter terrifying force standing before them now, no one could answer precisely. But there it was, nonetheless.

"Yes, ma'am," James said, sounding remarkably like his father. The SUV doors popped open, and everyone piled out. Bruce ruffled the kids' hair as they scurried by, but remained on the sidewalk to see Pepper and Natasha. Together, the three watched them walk inside.

"I think we just made a big mistake," Natasha said, folding her arms.

"They'll be fine...If they know what's good for them," Pepper said, unconcerned.

"That's the thing, I don't think they quite get what we will do to them if they screw up."

Bruce snickered. "Hey, look at it this way. They are all officially my problem, everyday, 8-4:30. Besides, Sam Wilson's kids are coming here now, after you all picked this school. Then there's Parker signed on for homeroom teaching, the ant-kid is attending, and that's not even touching mine."

Pepper looked surprised. "Does this mean you and Betty made it official? You're adopting her kids?"

"The Avengers' household has two more members." Bruce cast a gentle look in the direction of the two. "It's been hard since their father died. I'm not replacing him, but I've been in their lives for so long now, I hope they don't see me as a threat. I guess this means I should tell them about that whole turning green thing."

Pepper leaned against him, pushing playfully. "I'm sure they've figured that out already. I'm really happy for you, Bruce. They're great kids. Hopefully the other four aren't going to irritate them too much."

Bruce shook his head, heading for the courtyard of the school. "They shouldn't, especially since Kally knows more about astrophysics than Ben does. That always gets his approval. I'll go in and get the announcements started. After all, it's my first day too."

First day, Natasha thought, watching him head inside. It was a first day for a lot of things. Sure, she worried about how the next generation was going to handle a new school, new dynamics, and Earth educational systems. Alice had done so well under her private tutors, that setting her loose in a larger environment was sure to come with its own set of challenges. But she had her friends, her support, and everything they could have asked for. Kind of like when Clint first walked into the Avengers' lifestyle. She was already getting a better start than either of her parents had.

* * *

Continue... if you dare


	15. The Descendants cont

**Part 7 -For now, the Final Part-**

 _ **The Descendents**_

Chapter 2

Entering as a freshman in Midtown Regional High School, or as it was increasingly referred to as "Hero High", one's day began at 7:00am sharp unless you happened to take a bus. At that point, 6:30am tended to be more common. The school buses lined the horse-shoe shaped entrance to the two-story brick face building. It looked more like a county capital than a school. A tall dome waving an American and New York flag crowned the center of the building, supported by six Roman pillars. Each pillar represented one of the original world heroes, Iron Man, the Hulk, Hawkeye, Black Widow, Captain America, and Thor. When night fell, independent lights flickered to life, illuminating the columns in green, purple, black, gold, red, and blue. It could be seen throughout the campus.

A cement walkway led up to the cascade of stairs. Four brick arches crested over the front entry way where the reception room and waiting area were located. It seemed more like a feet of architectural marvel rather than a functional school house, but Bruce Banner had particular tastes and fifteen million dollars with which to complete his vision. Both Tony Stark and Clint Barton's estates came together to support his endeavor . . . and Thor donated one ton of gold (approximately $36,281,600 by current market values).

On the eve of its opening, every executive of Princeton's scientific department arrived to convince Banner out of accepting the principle position. Unfortunately, they did not succeed. Bruce's nearly twenty-five year internment as the head researcher, neurosurgeon, and radiation specialist in Princeton University came to an end for a good cause. Originally, the Xavier Institute was the only private university to openly welcome mutant children. Now, after a seven year long preparation and war which encompassed the entire universe, calm had at last arrived. Earth focused more on its own, home grown, problems and that allowed a chance to focus on family.

Then came children, hundreds of thousands of them. A years after the Earth settled at last, those sons and daughters of the world's elite faced a well-prepared for challenge. Education. And with a vast number of heroes settling in New York City, due to the location of Avengers' Mansion in Harlem, the Xavier Institute simply couldn't handle the class sizes. Also, it typically catered to the fostering of mutant genetics and their guidance or control. Not every son or daughter of heroes had a mutant gene. Sam Wilson, or Falcon, raised two boys and a girl. While they excelled in remedial high schools, their father's extreme intelligence and their own personal risk as the children of a Galactus War hero put them in danger. Tony Stark's son, Benjamin, started out in public school and soon the teachers realized skipping him ahead by seven grades in a single year simply couldn't be done at the age of fourteen.

Hero High became a miniature pre-college. Dorms were erected for the distant travelers and buses served local areas. Mutants, humans, and enhanced beings alike all came together on that first exciting day to see what an education under the minds like Bruce Banner, Peter Parker, and Tony Stark might entail.

Mornings began in the general reception room for check in. Students were scanned for prohibited enhancers or foreign tech that might distract their sensitive minds (or could be manipulated into mind control devices . . . one had to weigh all possibilities). Classes split by grade to separate homerooms.

It was realized early on that a classification system based on age alone didn't measure up to the individual needs of the student body, and a tier system soon took over. Six tiers, unsurprisingly, were settled on and went something like this:

 ** _Purple_**

 _As the beginning model of the education experience, all students began in this section and through the first few weeks of learning, shuffle up the system depending on individual strengths and weaknesses. Though some might have an understanding of twenty-five languages and an ability to hack into the United Nations, they may lack basic history, and so that was supplemented. Each day was broken into seven individual periods and a typical Purple Tier day had the following start: Home Room, English, Math, Lunch, Biology, History, and lastly Gym._

 ** _Blue_**

 _Higher Mathematics are instilled with history being dropped in place of shop class and special engineering topics, mostly taught by Tony Stark with occasional guest lecturers. Students are expected to complete one labor-intense mechanical project throughout the course of the class which will be presented on evaluation day prior to the end of the term. English 2 is taught the beginning half of the term, while literature and critical analysis overtake the second half._

 ** _Black_**

 _Foreign relations and languages become key. Students who already excel in multiple languages may take a free period during this time, or repeat a previous tier class. Higher mathematics, including calculus and geometry are taught simultaneously. An emphasis on computer-based knowledge becomes key in equation differentials. History is brought back again for half a period to reiterate common topics and current events._

 ** _Red_**

 _Computer based learning, hands-on instruction, and real world scenarios in problem solving are paramount. History, mathematics, and proper grammatical accuracy are taught in conjunction via hands on class projects, research excursions, and other instructions at teacher discretion. Biology and chemistry take a forefront. 6th period opens for elective courses as approved by student advisers. Electives include, but are not limited to: Foreign Policy, Fractal Analysis, Mythology, Comparative Religions, Business and Entrepreneurial Skills, Journalism, Creative Writing, Fine Arts, Intro to Medical Studies and the Human Mind, Intro to Veterinary Studies, Driver's Ed, Sports, Astronomy, and so many more._

 ** _Gold_**

 _Self-education, as well as teamwork are the goals in Gold class. Students learn a balance of both independent study and the importance of collaboration in competitive tasks throughout the term. Four basic class selections are taken, ranging from sciences, creative arts, business, and technology during periods 1, 2, 3, and 5. Periods 4, 6, and 7 may on any day become sudden training exercises. Students will be divided every three weeks into sub-groups, and those sub-groups tasked with specific missions to complete in a certain period of time whether as individuals or a whole. Grades are assigned on the same scale. The failure of one may include the failure of all. Sub-groups may be divided by "heroes" and "villains" at the discretion of the exercise adviser. Timelines for completion may range between seconds, weeks, or even months depending on the scope of the exercise._

 ** _Green_**

 _As the final tier prior to graduation, students entering Green class are instructed under the model of see, do, and teach. In the first third of their term, students will review exercises from the previous five tiers and expand on their understanding using the knowledge gained from each, to create their own scenarios and problem based learning experiences. In the second third, students are given reign to run their own exercises, build their own projects, and compete against one another as advisers see fit. In the final third, Green class is utilized as student-teachers. They take on the instructional periods for electives or tier classes below them and, under the care of an adviser, proceed to teach their fellow underclassmen._

On occasion, crosses occurred between one tier class and another. Students are individuals and as such were instructed in weak areas until they performed to the level of counterparts in their respective fields. Magni Foster, the son of Thor, had a wealth of information on mathematics properties that rivaled his most intense instructors, though he lacked any knowledge in Earth history prior to World War II. James Rogers, a product of Steven Rogers and Lady Sif, had leadership, drive, historical accuracy, and couldn't figure out the square root of four without Google.

Day one became a challenge for everyone and staring up into the ivory-colored dome, clutching the strap of a bright purple back pack on one shoulder, one student in particular wondered why she even agreed to come. Alice Black glanced over her shoulder at the trio standing beside the SUV at her back. Natasha Romanov, Pepper Potts-Stark, and Bruce Banner were all smiles and laughing as they caught up with one another and allowed the Avenger kids off on their own. Magni's elbow propped on her shoulder while he laughed at James only a few steps ahead of them. The Roger's kid wore a pair of oversized headphones with a bright yellow string. The line hung down the Captain America shield t-shirt before disappeared around his waist and into the iPod shoved down his jean pocket. Benjamin Stark walked behind her, kicking the toe of his high-tops into the heel of her sneakers. He liked catching her just right and laugh as her foot launched forward into the air.

Usually Alice stopped him, but today her focus remained on her mother. Natasha dyed her hair blonde again. Not uncommon when she wanted to disappear around New York City and not be recognized. The Black Widow had a keen ability to simply fade into a crowd. In fact, it was her calling card. When she left the city behind for good to be with Hawkeye, the entire world simply wrote her off. Being out in public, like this, with Banner and Pepper right there was something Alice hadn't seen before. In a way, it was somewhat unnerving.

Her inattention gave Ben the angle he needed to get her leg just right. Her foot shot forward, she lost her balanced, and nearly fell, but Magni's sturdy Asgardian hand clamped onto her shoulder and kept her upright. If Ben thought he was getting away with a cheap shot like that, she had something else in mind!

Alice gave chase, leaving Magni and James behind. Ben shot off ahead of her, mounted the school steps and intended to sweep inside and seal the door shut behind himself. Magni tossed a pen forward. It landed in Alice's waiting hand. The girl balanced one end, flicked it, and true to her father's aim did not miss. The pen rebounded off a water fountain, a basketball, and hit the step in front of Ben's foot. Ben slipped mid run, lost his balance, and might have slammed face-first into the steps had James not caught up to him. The Roger's kid grabbed the back of Ben's shirt and planted him upright once more.

The owner of the basketball dribbled it again. He smiled through a smooth-skinned face and almond eyes at the two boys. "Trying to die day one, Stark? Though you were going to wait until after I destroyed your Blue Tier mechanics project. Heard you were making an Iron Man suit. That's original."

James smiled back. Hiro was Bruce's new adopted son and the offspring of Betty Ross and a Japanese scientist during the war. After the war, came the plague, and that's what finally claimed their father's life and a few million others within a few years. "Hi Hiro, your mom teaching math today?"

He shrugged disinterestedly.

Beside him, his Japanese-American sister, Kally, nodded. "Course she is. Not sure for how long though, she's heading to London in three weeks for that conference on thermodynamics and potential addition of the fourth law."

"Arguing for or against?" Ben asked offhandedly, dusting himself off.

"She's not sure."

"I do not understand why Midgardians are so determined to ignore the existence of all fifteen laws! Why should one ignore the forth and not all three and consider the matter an improbability?" Magni asked.

"Because people are sheep," Hiro said, then proceeded to bleat.

Alice slipped in beside the others and glanced through the large bay windows at the reception room only a door away. A few students stood in clusters around the portico, catching up on their summer vacations. She recognized the Parker kid, Falcon's children, and a few others from her study of the registrar the past few nights. She wanted to understand the inevitable dependent cliques, and whether or not the small band of people she'd known so long would continue in each others' company or fracture with the tier system placements only a month away.

Hiro and Kally had been acquaintances for the past four years, though Alice still knew relatively little about them. The twins' mother was Betty Ross. She'd married Hiro Kayusaga, a prominent scientist whose knowledge on the merging of metal and organic matter became essential during the Galactus War. Three years after, a familiar virus cut through the world and took his life. Eventually Betty fell back to her old flame, and the man she always truly loved, Bruce Banner. The kids, though, held a greater skepticism over the match.

"I'm going to my locker," Ben said, striding through the front door. An automatic arm swung the entry inward, and held it long enough for the five others to follow. "After that, I'm heading to homeroom. I got stuck with Strange." He leveled an eye at them. "I am not happy."

Alice broke off in his direction.

"I think Uncle Bruce had announcements he wanted to make first," James told them.

Ben waved a hand over his shoulder, as if he there was little in the world to make him care less. Alice kept tightly beside him and ignored the others. She'd been raised on a foreign world. During the Galactus War, her father had suffered a grievous injury in his quest to save the galaxy from unheard of evil. The Realm of the Light elves contained a great range of mountains, and those mountains held a tunnel of caves famous for healing properties. When Clint's body had been recovered, he was promptly taken to the mountains and over seven months he slowly repaired. During that time, Natasha, having no notion of his surviving the ordeal, gave birth to baby Alice. After a time it became obvious that Clint would indeed live, and the Avengers were taken to Alfheimr to see him. It was attempted, on numerous occasions during the years Clint spent on that realm to bring him again to Earth (or Midgard as the Elves referred to it). Each attempt met with dire consequences. He could never again, as they foresaw, leave that elven land without risking his own demise.

For that reason, Alice had always been educated under private tutors in that realm. Through one of the portal doors in her Elven home, she could always visit the Stark Tower, or Bruce's Princeton apartment, and even Asgard at will. Seclusion suited her. For most of the child's young life she had been declared both mildly autistic and mute, a consequence of cerebral hypoxia during her birth. Large crowds tended to scare or confuse her while sticking to a single individual occasionally assisted her. Given her mutism, and her father's long time deafness, she learned sign language very early in life. Fortunately for her friends, they had long ago stopped noticing such things.

While it may have been prudent at the time to remain with either Magni, James, or even the twins, they were a large group than Ben alone. Immediately she followed him without thought.

Ben rounded the corner through the receiving area, stole an ID badge with his picture on it from a counter top, and shoved headlong through another doorway. It was in all likelihood he had memorized the layout of the building the night before in order to not appear confused, like the rest of the student body apparently found themselves. Alice crawled up beside him, grabbed her own ID and launched through the doorway before it had a chance to shut.

Ben glanced back at her. "You do good things. Go wait with everybody else like we're supposed to."

She smacked his arm. "Stop patronizing. It makes you look stupid."

"I'm not patronizing, I'm right. And you following me around doesn't mean you're getting stuck in the same tier as me, so you might as well get used to it."

"I'll probably be in a higher tier."

The Stark boy stopped mid stride and threw an angry glance at her. "Are you kidding me? No way."

She flipped a grin and continued forward. She swept the area, noted the row of lockers down the left hand corridor and headed in that direction first. Eventually the ruffled Ben went along. They checked the first few numbers etched in the tops of the metal fronts, noted that theirs were relatively close to one another, and pulled them open. Alice glanced into the dismal five foot by twelve inch space and then at her back pack. She knew it would fit inside, but somehow the mere act of claiming her space solidified the fact that she now attended a normal high school. Gone were the days of field trips to Skydale, running wild in Earthenden, or adventures in Woodrenkell. No more endless hours of riding the backs of the great antlered cats. No more private lessons by Miss Birdie in her Italian, or Faraday in Elvish.

Staring into the empty locker it all hit her in a single moment.

She panicked.

Ben extracted the metal wallet from his pocket and hit the small button along the side. The Pym particles he used to shrink his backpack down to size deactivated, allowing the si blue and silver to morph into a typical messenger bag. He flipped the top flap over and glanced at the contents. Everything seemed to be in proper order.

"Hey, you're in my homeroom, right? You think Dr. Strange will make us—" He moved his head as he spoke from the contents of his bag to the girl who at one time had been standing behind him. Alice, though, was nowhere to be found. The bright purple bag sat outside her locker, sitting by itself. Knitting his brows together, he glanced around the hallway. An overhead bell rang out nearly as loud as a fire alarm. A few seconds later, the speaker system came on.

 _"Welcome to Midtown Regional High. This is your principle, Dr. Bruce Banner. Homeroom assignments have been sent out already, and if you are unsure of where to go, your first day's schedules have been placed on the back of your ID cards. Please pick these up as you enter the reception room. You have ten minutes to reach your homeroom, so if you aren't there yet, get to it!"_

Ben looked down at his ID card and sure enough, a digital readout displaced the number of his first classroom assignment. He had to admit Bruce went above and beyond what he expected for a private high school. One ton of gold gave him the chance to do that though.

"Holy cow! Hey, Alice, did you see this? How awesome is this thing? It maps out the entire building in case you get lost with a pinpoint GPS system too! Alice?" he asked, stepping into the hallway. "Alice, you heard the announcement, we've got to…"

Something rattled. He swung his head back in the direction of the lonely back pack until he traced the sound upward. The locker.

Ben emptied the few contents from his back pack he knew wouldn't be necessary and snapped a lock over the front. Crossing the messenger strap over his chest, he traversed the hall and pulled up the metal clasp on Alice's locker. He stared at the hiding girl who had somehow contorted herself inside like a circus performer.

"Seriously? I really hope someone came by when I wasn't looking and stuffed you in there and you didn't just happen to do that to yourself. Because only weird people do that."

~"I'm not going to class here,"~ she signed.

"How many times have we been through this?" Ben demanded, rolling his eyes.

~"I don't care. I'm going home."~

Ben reached in, grabbed her by the arm and attempted to force her out. It wasn't an easy task. The minute she saw him try it, the girl's entire body expanded in a mass of two braced arms and legs that completely locked her in place. Ben switched grip, aimed for her leg, went nearly horizontal to drag her out but still she remained trapped.

He narrowed his eyes. "This is absolutely ridiculous. I am not being late because of you."

Alice still did not come out.

"I _will_ call Max and he _will_ come over here and remove you, and this entire row of lockers by force."

Threatening her with Max usually did the trick. This time it had zero effect. They had reached breakdown level gamma and any moment she may proceed up to level beta and, the rarely ever seen alpha. Ben groaned and yanked his phone out of his pocket. It was half the size of a pencil, and about the same shape. Engaging the side mechanism a virtual touch screen flickered to life, a roll of flexible Plexiglas unfurled, solidified, and created a tablet to handle. He speed-dialed a number.

"Max? Ben. Get over here. Second left turn. We have a situation. Bring Jamie." He flipped the phone of, allowed it to retract, and returned it to his pocket. "You happy now? I called both of them. Are you coming out of there before Max shows up or is he really going to force you out?"

~"Are those my only options?"~

~"Yes,"~ Ben signed back. "This is day one, Alice. If you can't handle this, then what are you going to do when Dr. Strange calls on you? Or you need to do a group project? You knew signing up for this that eventually you were going to be here."

~"My parents didn't go to high school."~

Ben's expression softened slightly. That was true. Natasha Romanov had been a part of the Red Room program in Russia, brewed in the early twentieth century after the Americans created Captain America. Her form of education involved how to deceive, murder, and destroy. Clint Barton grew up in the home of an abusive drunk butcher and a pacifist, chain smoking mother. He'd never graduated grade school until Bruce Banner began working at Princeton and introduced Clint to his first class ever: Field Trauma Medicine. Excelling in that concentrated course inspired Bruce to lay into him a little harder. At the age of forty, Clint attained his G.E.D.

"I know they didn't, and my dad graduated in like, three months. But guess what? They want us to be normal human weirdos." He leaned forward and propped his elbow on the locker next to him and sat his chin in his hand. "So, with that little pep talk in mind, we have four minutes before Dr. Strange sends us to detention in the Negative Zone. Can you please evacuate the locker?"

"Etuya menea eyӓe ney," _Only upon my death_ , she growled in Elvish.

"You know I have no idea what you're saying."

A clatter of footsteps thundered up the hall. Ben waited until James and Magni were beside him before acknowledging their presence. He indicated the situation stuffed in the locker.

"We don't have time for this. You guys yank her out. I'm going to class," Ben said, stepping away.

James tried to reach out and stop him, but the Stark kid kept going. "Hey, we can't just force her! You know that!"

Ben shrugged his shoulders. "Pay me to care."

Magni and James exchanged a private look. Ben had reverted back to his feigned nonchalance. For the most part it was a rouse, and they knew it. One minute the Stark kid would be shaggy hair covering his eyes, dark, deep, reclusive, and flaunting every dollar he'd ever gotten and the next he'd be shooting milk out of his nose or drawing on his friends sleeping faces with sharpies. He could act as high and mighty as Loki on a power trip, but fooling his friends into believing his personality was in fact that haughty, never succeeded.

Focusing on the task at hand, James took over the reins.

"Ok, Alice. You don't want to come out. I get that. Don't come out. Stay here until first period. It's just home room. I'll send Uncle Bruce down to see you."

Alice stared at him blankly, saying nothing.

Magni tugged her shirt sleeve once, smiled at her, and moved away from the locker. After a time, James followed him. Alice had a personality very similar to her mother. She could not be convinced with inspiring words into something she did not want to do. Instead, the power of suggestion worked best and no one knew that better than her father, or Uncle Banner. It was best to leave her in the new principle's capable hands.

* * *

Continue... if you dare


	16. The Descendants conti

**Part 7 -For now, the Final Part-**

 _ **The Descendents**_

Chapter 3

"I remember when I forced Clint into a school. I think he hyperventilated in the hallway. Twice. We used him as a body dummy for the trauma class because he legitimately passed out on us. The trouble is, back then he had this fear of needles that absolutely destroyed his life. We couldn't even get him into hospitals without dragging him inside, or knocking him unconscious. One time, Steve Rogers challenged him to a drinking contest. If Clint didn't get stupid drunk he didn't have to go to the hospital. Should have seen how much cash Steve spent trying to fill him full of liquor."

Bruce unpopped the top of his water bottle, took a drink, and set it down between his knees again. He was sitting on the floor of the hallway, his back propped on the rows of lockers. The daughter of his two long-time friends had stuffed herself precariously inside the closest open locker. While it might be easy to simply call Natasha to pick the child up, Bruce wanted something better for her. He knew Clint would have agreed with him. Alice deserved to be educated and while running like a wild elf all over Alfheimr might better suit what she had in mind for a future, Bruce knew she could do more. He didn't want to give anyone an excuse to write her off, and that included her antisocialism. A few experts attempted to label her autistic, but with his own background as a neurologist, Banner was less certain. As a child, she loved her parents and showed few of the typical autistic spectrum features. He wasn't exactly sure what to consider her.

"Your mom brought me these grey berries from Lakeheed. You know the ones Rinon grows in his garden? I never thought I'd like them dried. It gives them this weird tangy flavor. It's really good. We're not supposed to bring food and things from other realms here. It risks spreading another epidemic like that influenza complex which killed so many like Hiro and Kally's father. The good thing about Alfheimr, is viruses don't exist there."

Half of a blonde head with one bright, blue eye peered out of the locker and down at him. Bruce continued to ignore her. Like Natasha, direct requests got him nowhere. He could ask her to come out, sit with him and talk, but mostly likely she'd remain hidden like a fawn fleeing Elmer Fudd's rifle. Instead, he preferred to mention how much he was enjoying himself, implying that she somehow missed out on such enjoyment in remaining by herself.

Alice glanced down at the bag full of lyola berries, and back at Banner. She loved those too. Rinon, the King of the Alfheimr realm, often brought them whenever he visited. His wife and queen, Fehreh, made jams out of them. She'd been a kitchen maid once and appreciated what it took to make great food.

Bruce took another healthy handful, dropped them into his mouth, and left little more than a quarter in the bag. If she didn't move now, there would be nothing left.

Alice slipped one foot out, and then another. Like a scared cat evacuating from the top of a refrigerator, she lowered herself down to the floor beside him and shoved her hand into his bag without bothering to ask.

"This is progress," Bruce commented.

She said nothing.

"Second period starts in fifteen minutes. You're spending it with Max. Beast signed on to teach English until I could interview someone who is as amazing as he is."

Still silence.

"I feel like Magni might move into the Black Tier. He already has a mind for mathematics, but he can't operate a mouse pad without snapping it in half. I think that might pose a challenge for him. In his free period, I imagine he'd stick in the English or Literature group."

Alice looked over at him. "I want Red."

He hid his smile. Interaction at last. "The excursions sound interesting. Falcon and I are working out the kinks of research trips for the Red Tier."

"I want to take Mythology and Medical Studies."

Bruce nodded. "Those are hard courses."

"I can take both. They're only half a term each. Or Astronomy and Comparative Religions. I have a list."

Back up plans for her back up plans. It was a Clint Barton trait. "I think those are great options. Vlunkin is an Asgardian who worked alongside Odin and me to form the Universe map. He's teaching astronomy."

"I think I'd like that."

A faint buzz interrupted them. Alice looked down at her lap and the vibrating ID card sitting on her knee. She turned it over. A countdown announced she had five minutes before her next class began. A digital rendering of the hallway appeared, zoomed out like a map, and a blue line highlighted the fastest route she should take to reach room A131 on time.

"I guess I'll go see Max."

"You can stay if you like," Bruce lifted his coveted bag of snacks and dropped it into her hands.

"I should at least try this out."

"You don't need to prove anything to anyone."

She picked up the bag and shoved it into her pants' pocket with the ID card. "Thanks for chatting, Uncle Bruce. I know we're trying to keep this whole parent's thing under wraps. I'm calling myself Alice Black. You'll be Principle Banner while I'm in school."

Bruce shuffled to his feet, pushed his glasses up his nose, and slipped his hands into his pockets. "Alice, you can tell anyone you want to about your parents. That's your choice to make."

"I don't want to."

"That's fine."

"I'll come to your office if I need something."

"I'll be there."

Alice turned without any more ado and trudged down the hallway.

Bruce smiled as she left. There she was, Natasha.

:(:):(:):

The thirty-seat class filled with the elated, interested bodies of a similar numbered new students. The fresh paint smell permeated the air, drifting in her direction from the seven windows lining the wall opposite of her. A great cherry desk sat in the front of the room, commanding attention by its very presence. The blue-furred, indescribably monster hanging over top of the desk became a different matter entirely. Beast's large head turned toward her. Two great tufts of fur, blue on top and ebony beneath, framed the sides of his face.

"Miss Black! Good of you to join us! Might I suggest a seat here?" He extended his muscular hand forward to a table only three feet away from his, in the front row at the center of the class.

Alice never bothered to shake her head. She back peddled, intended to flee at once to safety until a solid chest connected with her back.

"Hold strong, follow me," Magni's voice whispered into her ear. He pressed her hand into his and entered the room first. He nodded a hello to Beast, found a pair of chairs at a connected table and directed Alice into the one nearest to the window. He took her back pack and set it down in front of her and repeated the same with his own. She was staying, end of discussion. Beneath the cover of the table, Alice tugged the end of his shirt. Magni glanced over and watched her sign ~"thank you"~.

One of the boys in the seat ahead of them spun around in his chair. He had fair silver hair, sharp cheekbones, and a prominent hump in his nose from where it had once been broken. When he smiled, his canines peaked out a great degree lower than they should.

"Name's Grey Clark. I'm a Vamp from Eastside. Never seen you around these parts."

Magni's gaze shifted between Grey and Alice. It was apparent the vampire boy didn't address him.

"She's not from around here," Magni said.

"Where you from then?"

"She hails from one of the great branches of Yiggdersii in a realm far beyond the imagination of this."

"She's got her own mouth, ya know, I think she can answer for herself." Grey finally condescended to look in Magni's direction. What he found included two folded, flexed arms and a look stern enough to murder mortal men.

"She has an inability to speak and prefers the company of familiars of which you are not yet apart. Should you prove yourself worthy, she may. Pressure her, and you shall taste my wrath." As he spoke, Magni hands clasped together, his knuckles flexed, and audible cracks resounded in the air.

Alice wound up and rammed the side of her foot down his calf. It took everything in him to show no pain. Her message remained clear: I am not a "maiden" who requires rescue.

Undeterred, Grey lifted his eyebrow, sent a smooch in her direction and turned around in his seat again.

Magni closed in on the girl's ear, whispering, "My only aim is to spare you discomfort. Stop hitting me!"

Her hands gestured beneath the table top in response. ~"Stop trying to be some knight in shining arm. I can stick up for myself!"~

"I am well aware!"

"Students?" Beast volleyed in midair, rotated, and landed upright on his desk. An inquisitive glare fell on the two Avenger offspring in the back of the class. "Is there something of dire importance with which I should be made aware?"

Neither spoke.

"Very well. Let us begin today on your general assessment and what is expected of you in these coming four weeks. As you know we aim to improve not only your minds, but the very spirit which drives you in these courses you have decided to undertake. If you would like to avoid my class entirely, and the five thousand word essay I shall require on one of the beatitudes as your final, I suggest paying keen attention to what we will be reviewing. Let's start with Lord Byron."

Alice extracted a notebook from her bag and absentmindedly began to scribble down a few of the more important facts of the long-dead poet. Her eyes remained fixed on the window. The courtyard beyond had been arranged in a quad of grass and trees, all crisscrossing to a single center. It was a work of masonry masterpiece. Many of Earth's heroes, both man, mutant, alien, and enhanced all locked in an epic frozen battle against the army of Galactus. They floated over a center orb of hollowed copper meant to represent the field of battle, Nova Luna. Scattered throughout the remaining quad were single figures of men and women who lost their lives that fateful day. Closest to the English classroom window was none other than Hawkeye.

Byron forgotten, Alice stared up into the white alabaster stone. She could only see the back of his head, the quiver of arrows, and his arms flexed against a black stringed bow. He'd been carved on a base of jutting granite, its point broken off at one end, causing a rift beneath his feet. The stone archer fired into the sky above the endless crevice. The rock itself, once a formation known as Heaven's Keel found a new name the day Clint Barton disappeared into that hole. Hawkeye's Keel, the place of his death, where everyone in the galaxy save a small handful still believe his body resided for all time, sealed and shredded by the beasts in that dark place. She found something very morbid about how every statue dedicated to her father held that same contrast of him posed over his death place.

Magni's elbow swiftly worked into her rib. Alice startled back to herself, her eyes shooting forward to Beast. He seemed expectant of an answer to a question he thought she hadn't caught. Having the Black Widow as a mother and a spy as a father taught her long ago the importance of multitasking her mind. That same upbringing created something else in her. An ability to fall into a role like one might become Hercules or Othello in a play. Today, she decided to become Alice Black, understudy of the classics.

"Lord Byron wasn't his name at all. He'd been born George Gordon Byron in 1788 but for posterity and ease, his name became wildly known as simply Lord Byron. As to my assessment of his poetry, I find it infinitesimally dire and less eloquent than he touts. His rhymes are over worked and his use of language played out. I would much prefer to hear Shakespeare read by a whippet than endure his odious charms."

Every single person in the room turned in their seat to stare at her. It wasn't until Magni leaned over and whispered, "You just said all of that in Italian," that her persona of Alice Black, understudy of the classics, fell to the wayside.

Before her descent into utter embarrassment and shame, Beast complimented her with a heartfelt, "Bravissima."

To which Alice replied, "Grazie mille."

Her Italian tutor, Birdie, would surely approve.

Alice quite literally sank beneath her desk and hid there for the remainder of the class.

* * *

Continue... if you dare...from here, things will get dicey.


	17. The Descendants contiu

**Part 7 -For now, the Final Part-**

 _ **The Descendents**_

Chapter 4

Lunch could not arrive swiftly enough for most students who wished for their opportunity to mingle at last. After all, they had finally attended a prestigious academy full of peers their own age, with similar interests and life histories. Living as the progeny of a hero came with its own consequences. Danger, intrigue, and mostly boredom or loneliness caught a child's heart at least once during the course of their lives and here they'd been afforded an opportunity to share experiences.

A general cafeteria had been made available, though most chose to spend their hour out-of-doors along the quad. Unsurprisingly, Magni, James, Ben, and the twins came across Alice rooting through her lunch bag beneath the statue of her father. They decided to join her.

Certain cliques were already beginning to form, though how long those might last with placements on the horizon, no one could tell. A social dynamic took place where groups of children whose parents had close contact, drifted into the same social structures. The Avengers tended to stay together, as did the Defenders, the Riot Gang, and so on down the list of organized groups. Those whose parents worked alone, often still entertained some affiliations with Avenger's mansion, the overseer of all groups.

"So that's supposed to be Hawkeye?"

Alice's picked her head up, craning her neck to see around the statue's base at the group of boys. She recognized one as Johnny Storm's kid, Rocket, one of the Fantastic Four members. The other five she didn't know.

"Yeah. My dad says he used to crash at _Clint's Place_ for Fight Night down in Jersey before the war happened," Rocket said.

"The real Hawkeye didn't even have any powers," someone else mentioned.

"I heard he could hit anything _with_ anything. Like if you gave him a pencil he could spear a unicorn."

"That doesn't even make sense."

"It doesn't have to, because he defied the laws of probability!"

Alice returned to her lunch as the kids rounded the statue's base and headed further into the courtyard. Most thought Clint Barton's life history had been built up by bored historians. Their opinion held little difference than the majority of the world population. She knew better.

"I think Dr. Parker's trying to kill me, or hold me back in remedial classes. I haven't figured out which," Hiro complained, digging through his salad. He lifted a snap pea and grimaced at it.

"I give you a forty-three percent probability of being trapped in Purple Tier," his sister said, reaching over and taking his snap pea. She handed it to James who ate it.

Hiro's face fell. "Don't even joke about that!"

"Purple's not so bad," Alice said. Magni leaned over her lunch, took a piece of granola, and dropped a fruit on her plate. Alice grabbed the familiar object and held it up. "A muhl fruit?! My dad said no foreign stuff!"

Magni shrugged. "What Heimdall does not see, my father knows nothing of."

James snorted. "Well, now he probably knows."

Magni's expression changed to one of horror. He looked up into the sky, as if at any moment the Bifrost might open, his mother descend from the sky, and a cold hard slap cross his face. None of which actually occurred.

"Someone's gonna hear it tonight," James said in a sing-song tone.

"Oh, shut up."

Ben laid out on the grass, his sunglasses fixed over his eyes. Hawkeye's arrows pierced the sky right above him. "What Tier are you guys going for?" he asked.

"The last one," Hiro replied instantly. "Graduate in one year, start the University, run my private lab. Doctor by twenty-one."

His sister smiled. "That sounds awesome. I'm still older than you."

"By five minutes."

"I'd rather enjoy Gold. Imagine, in the midst of the day being called upon for a mighty quest?" Magni set his empty lunch box aside. "Yes, I think I'd rather like that."

"Gold does sound like fun, but you have to pass the other Tier assessment exams first. You suck in grammar," James pointed out.

"And your history beyond the Second World War is as stunted as Captain America!"

James got to his feet. "That's not true! I know all about Asgard history, or did you forget Lady Sif's my mother? I can thrash you, half-breed, faster than you can get me!"

Magni launched up. "So you say! I will pound your bones to dirt and feed the remains to Bjorlacks!"

Alice sat back and watched the exchange. James and Magni came from not so different backgrounds. Half Humans and half Asgardian, they occasional fell into a crisis of conscious. Technically speaking, James had a greater advantage. He had all the benefits of a second generation Super Soldier Serum and the genetics of a warrior woman. Magni ranked higher, given his position as son of the Asgardian king. Where Steve Rogers might entertain a friendly competition, the young hearts of the two sons had a very different sort of rivalry. There was always something to prove.

"Gym is in a few hours, just beat the crap out of each other then," Ben said lazily.

"A stay of execution then!"

"Until later!"

Satisfied both sat back in the grass and stewed over their future plans. Alice glanced across the grass at Kally. Her mother wanted her to make friends with other girls. The request wasn't Natasha's typical advice. After all, most of her life had been spent in the company of men alone. She trusted few women, imagining them as undercover Black Widows in their own right. The older Alice reached, however, the more Natasha and Clint preferred her to avoid a singularly male presence.

 _"The last thing I will have for you is a competition over what guy you are hooking up with. If that happens, I will lock you in a tower guarded by dragons,"_ Clint once told her. Alice had no doubt he planned to follow through.

"Hi," Alice said.

Kally glanced up from her food and smiled uneasily. "Um, hi?"

Alice nodded once. Enough interaction for one day.

:(:):(:):

"I don't teach."

The students shifted from one foot to another.

"I don't like kids."

Someone yawned.

"YOU!"

That someone was Ben Stark. Under the stern gaze of Logan, the Wolverine himself, Ben swallowed his gum. Wolverine's claws extended in Ben's direction and then, very directly, motioned at the stage beside him.

"Here. Now."

James and Magni had originally been flanking him on either side. The minute their gym instructor singled him out, the students peeled away from him as if leprosy had crawled over his skin. Unable to sneak out of it, Ben slowly made his way up to stand with Logan. The boy kept a safe distance between himself and the mutant. He faced the audience. Logan crept closer to him and bounced his boot right off the boy's back. Ben flew forward, off the stage, and hit the floor on his stomach.

Logan extracted a cigar from his pocket and shoved the stub of it in his mouth. "Been wanting to kick a Stark in the kisser since the day I met one."

The room laughed nervously. Not enjoying the joke at his expense, Ben picked himself up and rubbed the new bruise along his spine.

Grey raised his hand.

Logan's eyes narrowed. "What do I look like? A high-five guy?"

"Sir, I don't think you're allowed to smoke in front of us."

The Wolverine stared at him. Continued to stare at him. He extracted a zippo lighter, flicked on the flame, lit his cigar, and snapped it shut. He inhaled, exhaled, and still stared. After a long, uncomfortable minute, Logan said, "Wow. I smoked. Are you gonna get me fired? Cause that just means I get to go back home and work out with a six pack and re-runs of the Hulk vs Thor fight."

Grey didn't reply.

"Fine. Which two kids wanna get in this ring and beat the Hell out of each other?"

James and Magni shot their hands into the air.

"I let you do this you aren't planning to run home with bloody noses and cry to your moms about it? Sif mainly, she can probably break a few of my ribs."

Magni and James swore their secrecy. Logan evacuated the stage and walked down to the coach's bench. The two sons of Asgard clambered into the ring and stood across from each other, arms raised, stance set.

"What are you waiting for? A cue?" Logan asked through his cigar. "Ding."

The minute Magni and James rushed each other and collided with a mighty crash, Logan twisted his head toward the group of horrified onlookers. "This'll take a while. The rest of you go climb a rope or jog or something. The first one I catch sitting gets to wash all the jockstraps."

The gathered students scattered instantly. Logan chuckled to himself, turning his attention back to the couple of ball-breakers in the center ring. Maybe this wasn't going to be as hard as he thought. After all, Logan's good friend, Clint, ran his own gym. When Banner approached him with the opportunity, Logan told him what he told everyone (a phrase not listed for a PG audience). Given time to think it over, he eventually warmed up to the idea.

* * *

ok, brief aside, making logan the gym teacher was one of the most hilarious literary decisions i've ever made.

ok, aside over.

NOTE! THIS IS THE END OF THIS SECTION, MOVING ONWARD YOU WILL BE INVITED TO SOMETHING ELSE ENTIRELY, IN THIS SAME BOOK. my creative proces commonly has me hopping forward to the chapters i find more interesting and i fill in the gaps with cliffhangers later.


	18. The Descendants Future Chapter

**Part 7 -For now, the Final Part-**

 _ **The Descendents**_

FUTURE CHAPTER

(so, as i have stated in the previous chapter footer, this is much later in the same story. What has happened in between? Well, fight night has come up again. Clint, who is restricted to his life on Alfheimr, devises a specialized way to get him to fight night. He and Tony both agree that for now, hiding his identity from the opulace who thinks he died for them, is the best idea. So, this is the hilarity, and tragedy, that ensued)

"Natasha?"

"Lakeheed. Fehreh needed a woman-to-woman discussion on how to get to the Muspelheim war without anyone knowing."

"Alice?"

"Sleep over with the rest of the kids on Asgard."

"So techincally speaking the only ones we have to worry about knowing who you are is Star Lord and the rest of our team."

"Peter wouldn't know me from anyone else in a mask, so count him out. Cap might catch the hint. If the Hulk shows up, I'm ousted."

Tony and Clint stood on opposite sides of the kitchen table on Alfheimr, looking down at the new suit Tony had built. It was a skin tight number, the majority of the fabric was black but Tony counldn't help a little gold piping here and there to add color. Clint requested the extra padding around his knees and the samuria/elven like tunic from the shoulders to its waist. If T'Challa had seen it, the man would have run off to Wakanda with the suit and never returned.

"I've done tests on all the specifications. The plan is, go through Bruce's portal, get to Fight Night, and if anything happens there, were are only ten minutes from the portal again," Tony summarized.

Clint shook his head a little. "Cutting it close. Longest I ever lasted was eight minutes, and that was on Asgard. Midgard's harder weather, less oxygen, and I swear the planet is out to get me."

"You're beng dramatic." Tony turned his wrist over and checked his watch. "Besides, we could always use the bifrost if absolutely necessary. Will completely raise eyebrows, but it is available. Now strip down already. You're fight's in half an hour. The last time I scheduled you to fight Panther, you cut out because you went blind. This time, it is going down."

Less enthusiastic then he had been when spear-heading the "build-Clint-a-Suit" brigade, Barton stripped down and pulled the fabric on. He wasn't sure how long it would take him to get used to the skin tight adherance. He knew it was necessary to keep the healing particles of Alfheimr firmly attatched to his old wounds, but it didn't make him any more comfortable about it. Wearing a mask was an entirely different step into peculiarity. Even as Hawkeye he never wore a mask to hide his identity. Without it, he most assuredly would become hypoxemic. Only the internal oxygen supply could keep him regulated to an Alfheimr environment.

Fully dressed, he extended his hands to either side. "All right, I feel like Deadpool. How's it look?"

Tony grinned widely. "I should have made it in purple."

"Oh shut up! Come on, you got Bruce's car keys or am I jump starting it myself?" Giddy, but not wanting to show it, Clint rushed down the hallway for the Midgardian portal door. Flint looked at him longingly, hoping to go for a ride as well. If there was one dead giveway to Clint's secret identity, walking around with a five foot tall wolf was it. Flint stayed behind.

Tony and Clint emerged on the other side of the portal together and stood in the center of Bruce's living room. The home was for sale currently, given the doctor's new profession as a school principle in New York. Soon they'd have to close down the portal to this place and consider opening another if Fight Night became a monthly occurrence for them to sneak off to.

Tony fished around the coffee table for the set of car keys Bruce always left lying around and kept an eye on the second hand of his watch. Finding the set he snatched them up and turned to the masked Clint.

"Well?" he asked.

"I'm not dying. Or bleeding." Clint looked down and patted his chest, expecting his gloved hads to come away splattered a little blacker from blood. For now, he seemed completely stable.

"Breathing ok?"

Clint took a deep breath and didn't cough. "Yeah, I think your systems working really good. Where is it even circulating? I cant feel it." He patted down the face mask in search of what he assumed must be a large scuba-like air circulation system.

"Don't bother looking. I used microfilters then shrank them with Pym particles and fit those over the entire mask." Tony stepped over and looked critically at his work. "They're using room oxygen, storing it momentarily until it builds to a proper saturation, and then you breathe in 100% saturation."

"However you did it, it's working great!" Clint commended. "Come on! I want to try this thing out!"

Tony followed the archer out the door, mirroring his enthusiasm. As it had been over fifteen years since Clint last drove a car, Tony offered to handle the operation himself. After all, the last thing they needed was to slam into a tree. The entire drive took only a few minutes to accomplish. Tony threw relentless glances at the passenger, guaging whether or not Clint may suddenly implode from being earth-bound. So far, nothing happened.

"What is that?! Who made that?! When did that even get here?!" Clint exclaimed.

They had rounded the corner into the archery range Clint had owned and operated prior to his cancer diagnosis, before the Galactus War. In the time since his supposed death, a rather large statue had been errected in the front driveway. It was a stone, steel, and titanium bow which resembled Clint's gift from Odin Allfather. An Alfheimr arrow stood poised on its string and the base was, none other, than a granite rendition of Hawkeye's Keel. Bolts of lighting had electrified the statue on its first unveiling, which had later been converted into small, floating orbs in a myriad of colors. Clint kicked the door to Bruce's car open and bolted across the parking lot to see the monstrosity of human ingenuity. He had to admit, it was impressive.

"Let me guess," Clint said glancing over. "Kate did it."

"Give the man a prize!" Tony laughed.

"Figured as much. She's the only one I think who could get my bow right."

"Should be here tonight. I don't know who she's fighting, but Logan bussed some of the kids down from the school to let loose and see what they've got."

"For that tier system?"

"Yeah, Bruce is here to watch them too." Tony turned toward the front door, waiting for Clint to come along. Eventually, Barton left the statue behind.

"Think he'll pick me out?"

"Probably."

"Who did you tell them I was?"

Tony pulled open the front door to Clint's range and let the archer in first. "You're name is Ronin. I told Thor about you three weeks ago and mentioned you to Steve and Bruce last week. I paid a guy to wear the suit in public a few different places to establish a separate storyline that doesn't include your existance."

Leave it to Stark for the small details.

"Ronin?" Clint asked. He stopped outside the door leading to the basement Danger Room.

"I said you looked like a samurai."

"You know the 47 Ronin comitted suicide, right?"

"I think you might avoid that."

Clint rolled his eyes beneath the cover of his mask and took the first few steps into the party booming belw them. All at once his heart rate spiked. The boom of a stereo base sent a thrumming, living pulse through the air. His skin prickled at the sensation. The further down the open stiarwell he went, the more crowds of heroes appeared around the outer ring. Trapped inside the laser glass walls, Falcon and Spiderman were going head to head. Both men were covered in sweat, tattered clothes, and smoke billowed from one of Falcon's wings. Outsiders raised their drinks and shouted for their heroes to go all the way.

This was Fight Night at its finest.

* * *

continue if you dare...


	19. The Descendants Future Chapter cont

**Part 7 -For now, the Final Part-**

 _ **The Descendents**_

Clint stopped at the last landing before joining the general population. He had to take a second, breathe it all in. This was his first time back on Earth without being in the Stark tower. It was his first chance to see all the people he liked and care about, and gave his life for. Hawkeye truly died that day Clint dove into the crevice during the Galactus war.

Tony paused beside him and gently grabbed the archer's elbow. "You ok?" Tony whispered.

"No, I mean yeah. I'm ok. I just, I haven't seen any of them in so long. Look how old they all are."

Tony snickered. "Yeah, well, you're the one who wound the clock back on us for twenty-five years. That didn't work on everybody. Falcon's in his sixties. Rhodey wont tell me how old he is, but it's easy enough to tell." The reality of it suddenly fell heavier on Stark's spirit. He leaned on the railing beside Clint and watched them. "You know, I haven't been here since they put that statue up. Back when I thought you were dead too."

Clint didn't respond. He continued to look down at the crowds of people. There were many newcomers. Young kids bred in the throes of war who returned from the brink to come and experience Clint's Place. Fight Night was still the number one attraction for any hero passing through North Jersey on their way to and from the New York hero headquarters.

Tony tapped him again, a parting gesture, and headed down the remaining stairwell alone. The man he established as Ronin held few associations on the eastern seaboard. Having spent the majority of his time in the west coast, few in attendance tonight should know anything personal about him. Rumors, though, spread like wildfire. Tony worked hard establishing the character. Ronin, a swordsman from an unknown backing, had dueled against the fiercest killers and come out on top. He had a record as good as anyone in the Avengers Mansion and that allowed his opportunity to take on T'Challa. Tony put in a good word for that, but it was up to Clint to prove he could still be a hero.

The minute Tony's presence became known, heads turned instantly. The first man came up to him the minute he stepped off the staircase. His name was Iron Fist.

"Mr. Stark, It is an unexpected delight to see you tonight."

Tony nodded dismissively and kept moving. Four feet down the line, someone else stopped him to offer their condolences on Clint's death and how happy they were to see Tony back. Again, he spared only a few words and quickly passed on. When Clint and he cooked up the idea of arriving in Fight Night, Tony hadn't exactly realized the implications of it. Tony hadn't shown his face since Barton supposedly died. The only person in attendance who had any idea that Clint was not dead included Bruce Banner, and he wasn't there yet. The realization came too late that he should have hidden his face. He glanced up the stairwell and noticed Clint had made his own way down.

"That you? Tony! Hey, Tony!"

Tony turned in place and noticed Peter Parker evacuating the field of battle, or the center ring. He offered a small smile in Spider-Man's direction. Clint brought him into the Avenger's fold years prior after a mission. Peter had grown into a considerable man, influential and as scientifically driven as his mentor, Bruce Banner. Despite their friendship, even Parker had no idea of Clint's survival.

"Hey bug boy," Tony said, offering a hand.

Peter shook it, then used the back of his arm to swipe a stripe of blood out of his eye. "Let's go grab a drink. Bruce turn up yet?"

"Not yet."

The two turned away from the ring and headed to the far side of the room. There a familiar scientifically modified raccoon slung drinks like a regular bartender. He waved excitedly at the two men and slid a few beers in their direction. Behind them, the Danger Room cleared out for the next fighting pair. Peter Quill stood up and announced the new fighters, Titan and Blackhawk. Standing at the bar already, an excited Luke Cage sent a rib-rattling exclamation of support for his son in the ring. A few genial cheers went out for his opponent Blackhawk.

"Wow, Iron Can, been a while since I saw that face of yours on anything but the side of a billboard," Rocket said, sitting on the bar to face the ring.

Tony shrugged. "I don't get out much. That whole father thing's no joke."

"Yeah, explain to me again why it was such a great idea that no other species in this verse is compatible with my prolific gene pool."

Peter laughed, shaking his head.

Tony lifted the beer. "What, can't even get a cold one?"

"You want cold, get your own ice. I'm just back here to raid the bar after Star-Board dragged me out here. I could be in Selva 5 right now drinking whiskey from the hand of a red siren sphinx. Instead I'm stuck here with you two bone heads."

Tony smiled and leaned over the bar. He fished around for a glass, filled it with ice, and then turned back to the match. He propped his glass up and watched the beer fall in at the same time his eyes crossed to the ring. What he saw nearly caused his glass to slam into the floor.

Alice Black . . . Alice Rellya Barton, was standing in the center ring with her red Elven cloak pulled just above her eyes and a black scarf hiding the lower half of her face. She had a bow in one hand, a knife in her boot, and not a single arrow in sight.

Quill's words filtered through the shock slamming into Tony's brain. "Here we've got another pair of ringer's trying to make a name for themselves on a planet that just don't care! In one corner, you have Titan! The son of Luke Cage, this boy boasts fists the size of Honey hams, an arched eyebrow that slaughters women's hearts, and the staying power of a miniature horse!"

The crowd gathered in and laughed at Quill's deplorable description. Tony glanced frantically around to find Clint.

"In the second corner is Blackhawk! This ambidextrous stranger has the speed of a badger, the wit of Wolverine, and the all the menace of a wannabe Kate Bishop! Rules are rules, kids. No dirty blows, no bellow the belts, and… actually there really aren't any rules. Just don't kill each other!"

"Hey, isn't that Black Widow?" Parker asked, squinting to see the opposite side of the ring.

Tony's heart thudded in his chest. This was not working out as planned. Alice shouldn't be there. Her and Natasha were supposed to be on Asgard for sleepover or Muspelheim war crap, not hanging out at Fight Night the same day Clint decided to sneak in. Tony had half a notion to stroll right into that ring and drag Alice out by her hair. She wasn't ready for big league fights yet!

A streak of black and gold shot passed him and instantly Tony snapped back to himself. If he didn't stop Clint from climbing into that ring, their cover was as good as blown. He rushed to cut the archer off. He caught him just behind a support pillar and secretly yanked Clint by the arm and into the shadows.

"No!" Tony warned in a frantic whisper. "You go in there and everyone's going to know!"

"That's MY little girl, Tony!" Clint wanted to shout, but Tony's hand clamped over his mouth kept the sound somewhat contained. It was only during that motion, he caught sight of something else. Benjamin. The boy stood in a cluster of James and Magni, all of which stuck close to Natasha as they watched the match. Roles reversed in an instant, and suddenly it was Clint dragging Tony back into the shadows. The fighting, spitting mad parents watched from their small bit of privacy as the match played out.

Generally fights progressed for five minute stretches until either one or both parties threw in the towel. In the event of knockouts, the first one to their feet won. The most famed event in the past had been the highly publicized Hulk vs. Thor. If anyone knew who Blackhawk really was, then this fight might be a lot more interesting than they ever imagined.

The overhead buzzer sounded.

Alice dropped to a crouch, rolled left and advanced instantly. Her fingers opened in the air beside her and suddenly an arrow materialized out of nowhere. She set the knock against the string and fired all in mid stride. In a second she'd covered half the length of the massive arena and stood two feet from Titan's position. The arrow struck him point blank, sliced through his cape, and dragged him to the floor. Pinned in position, Alice simply pulled her bow string back a second time. An arrow appeared on the string and she fire. The second arrow lodged similar to the first, only on the opposite shoulder.

Titan shouted in surprise. He pulled at the nearest arrow shaft and snapped it out of place, but the minute he attempted to sit up, Alice was stopped him. She grabbed the lower limb of her bow and easily swung it like a golf club. The opposite limb connected with the boy's face. A mighty CRACK! Resounded through the room. Titan, despite his fists, was unconscious.

The shocked crowd stood in a state of silence, save the four or five cheering avenger's offspring in the corner. What had once looked to be a one-sided bout in Titan's favor had ended within ten seconds at the hands of a ringer. Alice straightened. She tapped her boots against the boy's, assured herself he was indeed unconsciously, and headed for the door. As if the win never registered in her mind, she headed down the ring stairs and joined the others.

"Tony, I think my little girl just kicked some boy's butt," Clint whispered.

"I think your little girl just smuggled some Elven arrows to planet earth. Where did she get those?"

"Rinon must have given them to her," Clint stepped out of the shadows to watch the group a little better. Magni, James, and Ben all congratulated her success. Widow gave very little recognition, though she did follow the group toward the door. Apparently whatever matches the rest of the kids planned had already concluded. Benjamin sported a new black eye. James and Magni looked like they had thrashed one another though Natasha appeared unscathed. The kids continued to garner stares even as they headed out.

"Was what just happened a good thing?" Tony asked.

"I don't even know."

"Did Natasha plan that without either of us knowing?"

"I think so."

"Heads up."

Tony and Clint both were forced to look away from the scene of Titan being dragged out of the ring by his less than pleased father in favor of the intercepting T'Challa. He'd spied the two from across the room, and being that their fight came next, hoped to make some sort of acquaintance with the man he hoped to pummel.

He wore his traditional Black Panther gear and bowed in the Wakanda way. "Greetings, my friend. I had had the misfortune of not acquainting myself to you prior."

Leaving the reality Alice's fight behind for now, Clint fell into his new role as Ronin, the silent samurai. He said nothing.

"Our mutual friend has regaled me with occasional tales of you history, though I must admit his flair for the dramatic. I am keen to understand them first hand." T'Challa tried again.

"We aren't friends," Clint said, deadpan.

The surprised on T'Challa's face didn't show behind his mask. "I see. A mistake on my part."

Clint pushed past him, slamming his shoulder into the Panther's on his way to the ring. "The first of many," Clint whispered to him.

The fight was on.

Announcements came and went. The ring cleared. The doors sealed. The laser glass and reinforced Vibranium struts of the outer walls lined in the crowd of curious onlookers. In the corner someone took bets on the side. Somewhere else, a familiar card player was slamming electrified decks into one of Clint's old targets. A few looked generally bored. This might have the same name, the same flavor and a few of the same people as the Fight Night's in its past. But Clint could feel something missing in it all. A spirit that fled away. That joviality that died when friends enter a room without one of their own. If there was any doubt as to the cause, one needed to look no farther than the picture of his face erected above the bar. A large mug of untouched ale rested in front of it.

Clint didn't like it. He knew long ago the decision to stay dead, become a legend, and be that inspiration earth needed was a good one. Seeing the effects of what his absence caused long term stung like an arrow in his chest. The anger brewed frustration, one that boiled over and threatened to swallow him up completely. Unfortunately T'Challa was in the position of squaring off against an angry Clint Barton and Clint had a great deal of rage to let out.

Clint knew when he decided to make a comeback that he'd be required to adjust his fighting style. His Sleiphner bow would always be within ready reach should he need it, but so did the two Alfheimr swords he'd commissioned. Hawkeye liked to fight at a distance, pick out weak points, and move in if necessary. Ronin fought in-your-face and he fought fast. The second the buzzer went of, Clint was already moving. He dodged left, a feint, knowing full well T'Challa preferred to concentrate his attacks on a man's back and left. Seeing an attack shifting from that angle, T'Challa took a split second to shift tactics. It was all Clint needed.

The first blade appeared in his hand, drawn out of the crisscrossed scabbards mounting against his back. He spun the sword in his hand until the blade faced backwards and swept down in a swift, one-handed arc straight for T'Challa's neck. Shocked, the Avenger dropped, meaning to sweep Clint's feet out from under him, but Clint was already coming at him and this time with the second sword. Apparently, T'Challa and the people watching had missed it. To the surprised declarations of the audience, T'Challa lost his balance and tumble backward, recovering only at the end. His head lifted to reconsider the man he had signed up to fight.

Clint stood back, one sword hovering horizontally over his head, the other at waist height. Only three Avengers had ever seen him use a sword, and those were Steve, Thor, and Tony. No one else in this room knew he was alive, and none could imagine that this swordsman before the now could be the legendary Hawkeye himself.

Stepping up his game, T'Challa sprang forward, sprinted right, launched into the air and meant to come down right in Clint's face. The Avenger dodged left, sweeping out with his left blade. T'Challa's panther claws laced in Vibranium swept the attack away. Clint came with the next sword and caught the Panther beneath the chin. Suddenly, T'Challa was counting stars.

The room emitted a gasp. Clint backed off, allowing his old friend a chance to gain his wits back from the blow. He didn't exactly want to end this fight too soon. After all, this was his first opportunity in years to actually cut loose. Why waste it?

T'Challa stumbled upright. Beneath the cover of his mask, his eyes blinked frantically to take in this man who stood across from him. Perhaps it was pride, or anger, even resentment. Whatever feelings he harbored suddenly swelled to the surface. Holding back went out the window. It was time to kill.

From outside the ring, the onlookers seemed to sense the electricity in the air. Those bored outsiders now abandoned their conversations to crowd in and watch as the long-time Avenger took on the new guy from the West Coast. T'Challa won countless bouts in his days as a Danger Room participant. No one could remember his last loss.

Bruce appeared in the throng of others. He spied out Tony's position almost immediately. He slid over, a smile on his face. "This one looks good. What I miss?"

Tony nearly jumped out of his skin. He spun in place to face the doctor. "Where did you come from!?"

"Wow, nice to see you too. I just got here, Tony. What's got you all worked up?"

"Nothing."

That was a lie, and Bruce knew it full well.

T'Challa's body flew off balance as the masked opponent hurled him through the air. The Black Panther slammed into the side of the ring just in front of Tony and Bruce. The duel Avengers grimaced.

"Wow, that guy's not pulling any punches." Bruce commented. He leaned on Tony's shoulder and watched. "Who is he?"

"Ronin. Fighter from the West Coast."

T'Challa, his anger flaring, came back swinging. Ronin dodged the first few attacks, feinted left, T'Challa back peddled, Ronin came up from the right with the bottom of one sword and snapped T'Challa's head to the side. It wasn't hard, not enough for another potential knockout, but the men watching cringed.

"He's playing with T'Challa. Baiting him in," Bruce observed, pulling off his glasses. "Who's this guy again?"

"I told you about him. A sword fighter from California. He took on King Cold three weeks ago and Killian Rush before that. He arrested the Royal Flush gang too." Tony continued to spin his tales, building up the character.

"Hey, I heard about that bust," someone behind them said.

T'Challa launched at the man again. He dove into a crouch, swiping his claws left and right. Ronin was force backward from the onslaught. What had usually been a friendly competition suddenly shifted to something deeper. Everyone felt it.

"Too hard," Tony whispered, taking a step toward the ring. "You're pushing too hard."

Clint didn't hear him and neither did he answer. His mind caught up in the excitement of the fight much the same way it had in T'Challa. He struck out with one sword. T'Challa ducked. The Panther sliced out with his claws and Clint fell sideways to avoid it. Clint swiped with his second sword, T'Challa thrust it down using his claws as a deflection, and in the same moment he slashed. For the first time, he connected.

The room gasped at the first sight of blood. Rather than let the wound stop him, Clint reversed his sword and came up with his knee and the pommel of his sword both at the same time. One slammed into T'Challa's side, the other his face, and the man tumbled across the floor. This time he did not rise.

"Oh no," Tony whispered.

Clint reached against his side, coming away with the dark blood stains on his fingers. His suit had torn.

Tony turned swiftly on Bruce. He grabbed the man on either side of his shoulders and shook the doctor forcefully. "Argue with me!" he exclaimed.

Bruce wrinkled his eyebrows. "What? Why?"

"If you care at all about our friendship, then do what I say!"

"Tony, I don't get it! What are you—"

"It's just too hard! Bruce, you don't get it, you never will!" Tony's voice accelerated. He was shouting, raising a ruckus, garnering attention from those who had at first been cheering on the mysterious Ronin.

Flabbergasted, Bruce reached out to him. "Tony, stop! What are you talking about?"

"We were brothers, all right? Don't you get how hard this was? Coming here without him? I can't do this. I've got to get out of here!"

Bruce reached out for him. Tony tore himself away violently, crashing into Peter who stood at his back. The fallout garnered a great deal of attention in his direction.

Out of the corner of his eye he watched as Clint escaped the ring and disappeared into those gathered around. He made for the stairs and began to mount them two at a time. Tony continued to shout. "Every day I miss Clint! Every single day! You might forget about it with these statues and monuments, and these stories about his life, but he wasn't just my friend, Clint was my family. My only family!"

His confusion disappearing under his analytical mind, Bruce changed tactics. If Tony wanted him to play along, it meant he had a reason to require a distraction and a swift exit. The exit came seconds after the end of the fight, something Tony had watched in great interest. Bruce cut a glance in the direction of the ring. T'Challa was being picked off the mat by his friends. The mysterious Ronin had fled.

The only time Tony ever came to these fights was with Clint.

The only time . . .

Realization took only seconds to come. Tony closed in on him. He grabbed Bruce's collar and shook him again. "We can't do this. I can't be here without him, and I can't let it go. Not ever."

Bruce's mouth dropped open in shock. Tony pulled away, throwing himself through the heroes in search of the stairs. Some closer men attempted to stop him out of kindness, but he avoided them all. Tony fled up the stairs, alone.

* * *

continue if you dare...


	20. The Descendants Future Chapter finished

**Part 7 -For now, the Final Part-**

 _ **The Descendents**_

"Ronin? Ronin, talk to me!"

"Tony!"

Stark pulled to a stop, changed direction, and opened the closet nearest to the outside door. Clint stood inside, his arm pressed tightly to the tear in his suit. His head lifted the minute he saw Tony enter.

"I . . . think . . . I think we have . . . a problem," he panted.

"Oh my God," Tony whispered. He stepped inside, yanking the door shut behind himself. He stepped over to Clint and moved his hands away from the cloth. He could see the four superficial stripes from T'Challa's vibranium claws, but around that was something worse. The skin along Clint's side, where once a great beast had yanked his side in half and swallowed his muscle and bone down, had begun to fall apart.

Clint lifted his eyes to Tony. "That's not good."

Tony looked around him, finding a stack of paper silhouettes and plastic wrap. Chucking the paper, he grabbed the plastic wrap and swiftly began tightening it around Barton's middle to create a skin tight seal.

"We have to get you back."

"I know."

"Should we use the Bifrost?"

Clint shook his head. "Everyone would know. I can . . . I can make it back."

"Are you sure?" Tony looked up to judge the reaction in Clint's face.

"We'll figure it out on the . . . we'll figure it out along the way."

"You breathing all right?"

Clint pushed off the wall, grabbed a wrack of supplies to keep from falling on his face, and stumbled for the door. His hand fell on the knob and all at once the two burst into the hallway together. Bruce alone stood in their path.

Staring at the two of them, Tony in his flustered state and Ronin, plastic wrapped back together, Bruce could only fold his arms like Natasha or Pepper might. "What the hell are you two cooking up?!"

"Talk on the way!" Tony announced. He grabbed Bruce by the wrist and dragged him along. With the other hand he took Clint's arm and drape it over his shoulder. Bruce instantly fell into step alongside them. As Clint's strength began to fail, Bruce supported him too.

"This is the stupidest thing I have ever caught you two doing! How long has this been going on, Clint?!" Bruce growled.

"Oh . . . you know . . . just moon—lighting my, my weekends," Clint replied.

Tony yanked open the car door and shoved Clint into the back seat. Bruce climbed in beside him. Stark settled behind the steering wheel, slammed the door shut, and jammed the ignition. They were speeding onto the main road within seconds.

Bruce braced on the backseat beside his friend, analyzing the outer matrix of the suit's composition. He could hear the faintest whistle, like a circulating air current. He shot a glance into the rearview mirror.

"Circulating air? Alfheimr air?"

"Concentrated red particles, yeah," Tony said, weaving around a slow moving car and blasting through a traffic light. Somewhere in the distance, a police cruiser flicked on its lights and gave chase.

Clint groaned, shifting under Bruce's weight. His hands pressed against his side where the flesh seemed to collapse a little easier than before. He continued to pant. He fought the panic which threatened to raise his heart rate. If he didn't get back to Alfheimr soon, the repaired hole in his diaphragm would come apart. Clint swallowed down the sharp stab of old pain gripping him.

Bruce gripped the plastic wrap between his hands and squeezed it tightly against Clint's body, producing a painful grunt from Clint.

"How's he doing?" Tony demanded.

Bruce pressed down harder, trying to eliminate the hissing from the suit's air leak. "His skin is falling off and very soon his ribs are going to disintegrate. How would you feel?!"

Tony shifted the steering wheel, throwing Bruce off balance as they turned down a residential street. The police car on their tail began to scream its siren. Two others had joined it.

"Tony?"

"We get Clint out of the car, into the house, through the portal. Door shuts behind us. No one knows. They won't even know how to find the door."

"Got it."

They made a second hard turn. Tony rolled right over Bruce's home realty sign and crashed the front two tires into the porch. Without bothering to turn off the engine, he jumped out of the car and yanked Bruce's door open. The three police cruisers drove up to the street and parked him in, as if they might attempt an escape. Bruce crawled out first, dragging Barton with him. Tony took one arm, the doctor the other, and together headed right up the steps.

"Police, freeze!" one of the black and whites ordered. He was crouched behind his open car door, gun drawn.

The three completely ignored them. They entered the house, took the first left and entered the back hallway. Suddenly, Clint stopped. He yelled, both legs collapsing beneath him. Tony and Bruce struggled to lift him fully as they dragged him into the back room. Bruce reached forward and pulled the handle on his floor length mirror. It swung inward on a hidden hinge, revealing the warbling matrix of his Alfheimr portal behind. They rushed inside, pulling the mirror shut behind themselves.

"Table." Bruce said, directing them straight inside. A thunder of paws cascaded down from the over-hill home as Flint realized his friends had arrived home.

They reached the kitchen Tony swept his hand over the table top, scattering the objects. They laid Clint down and promptly began to strip the Ronin suit away.

"Ok, future note. Don't get into any fights with Vibranium. I think that should probably go for adamantium too. I can try infusing the tensile strength with Vibranium string, but I'd have to call in a favor and T'Challa might figure it out." Tony said as he worked.

"Future note?!" Bruce exclaimed, "There is no future note! We are not doing this again!"

Clint pulled his own mask off and tried desperately to get his wind back. Before he knew it, the two had managed to snatch off his shirt, shoes, pants, and even managed to undue the saran wrap on his middle. He lay bare on the table save for his boxers.

"Clint, your chest opened up. I need you to sit up in case your diaphragm tears. Can you do that?"

"Hard to breathe," he wheezed.

"I know. That's why I'm worried. Sit up for me."

"My legs—"

Bruce looked down, pushing Tony's hands away. Two vertical scars traced from Clint's knees to nearly his hips. Two piercing circles, from where his femurs ruptured through the skin along his thighs, accompanied them. Bruce pressed his hands along the scars, producing a grimace from Clint.

"I don't think they're broken," Bruce told him.

"Feel busted."

"I really need you to sit up."

Clint eventually complied. Tony went around the side of the table and climbed up with him, bracing against his back to keep the archer upright. Bruce was right, it did help him breathe better.

"I'm going for some bandages. Upstairs?"

"Bedroom," Clint whispered, nodding.

"Watch him," Bruce said, stabbing a finger in Tony's direction. "And if I come back here and find either of you dunder heads missing, I will literally kill you."

As Bruce disappeared down the corridor, Tony couldn't help beginning to chuckle. He glanced back over his shoulder at Clint's face. "Dude, we totally just did that."

"I kicked T'Challa good." Clint tried to laugh but failed.

"Yeah you did!"

"I am gonna kill Natasha when she gets home."

"Oh yeah, that too."

"My little girl did awesome."

"Yup."

"She is so grounded."

Tony smiled again. "Yup."

:(:):(:):

you might be asking yourself, what was going to happen to all these awesome characters next? Well, Alice gets kidnapped right out of Ben's hands at the school...other kids are being kidnapped and replaced...a secret organization has replaced a key school member...the kids go off in search of Alice before their parent's find out what happened...Magni and Alice might have a thing between them, but does Ben actually interfere with that? Once Clint hears that his little girl is missing, well the Ronin suit makes a second appearance and it is all avengers on deck!

but...no...i haven't written an of that. no love triangle. no emotional rollercoasters. never finished...

* * *

so...that is it

that' the end of all the orphans

all the little stories i've been working on off and on over all the years. Maybe one day I'll take them up again, but for now at least you get to read what all my master plans were about.


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